


Mixed Emotions

by Tierra469



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel Castiel, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Episode: s12e01 Keep Calm and Carry On, Episode: s12e07 Rock Never Dies, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Masturbation, Post-Episode: s12e09 First Blood, Post-Episode: s12e10 Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets, Post-Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You), Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Season/Series 12, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Soul Sex, Voyeur Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9345287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierra469/pseuds/Tierra469
Summary: Castiel struggles with his anger at God, his frustration with Dean, and his waning grace—and when he nearly dies (for the umpteenth time) at the hands of Ramiel, Dean finally gives him an ultimatum. Luckily, an ancient Bible story holds the key to his restoration - and Dean and Cas find a way to merge Heaven and Earth to power the angel back up. When Lucifer murders Castiel in front of him, Dean finds out just how close he and Cas are - and what he's willing to do to bring him back.A tale in which Castiel makes a new pledge, Mary makes a new friend, Sam sees it all coming like a freight train, and Dean is bitch-slapped by the power of his soul’s bond with an angel. Starts at the beginning of Season 12, ends after the end, and offers a behind the scenes peek. SPN and its characters are not of my creation.





	1. Mixed Emotions

_You’re not the only one_

_With mixed emotions_

_You’re not the only ship_

_Adrift on this ocean           -_ Rolling Stones _, Mixed Emotions_

The young man’s pickup had apparently been running on fumes, and that fact was probably what saved him from eventually getting flattened by a passing vehicle as he lay sprawled on that lonely county road, a ruined billboard slowly smoldering in the field behind him.

Castiel nursed that pickup truck, knocking and sputtering, into a Gas ‘n Sip just in time, threw it into park next to the pump, and slid out. Feeling through his coat pockets for cash, he managed to locate a $20 bill. Relief coursed through him, followed rapidly by another flood of irritation. Grinding his teeth, he yanked the nozzle from the gas pump and jammed it into the truck’s tank.

Money. Relief. Frustration. Pumping gas. None of these things should BE, he thought. He should simply be taking wing back to the bunker, arriving in the blink of an eye. Wrinkling time, even, to arrive at the moment BEFORE the woman could palm the sigil and blast him away, and thwarting her plan. Alternatively, he should be able to SEE where the woman was taking Sam, and arrive ahead of her to stop her.

But no… Castiel was powerless to do any of these things right now, and at this godforsaken moment, he was stuck pumping gas into an old pickup truck at least three hours’ drive from where he’d last seen Sam, his mind as full of swirling human emotions as the gas tank was empty.

Emotions were such useless things, Cas thought. They clouded his judgment and dimmed his resolve and caused distraction. He had one directive—to watch over Sam—and he’d already failed, which now made him feel frustrated and angry. Fearful and sad. Humiliated and guilt-ridden.

Guilt… he recognized and loathed that nagging sensation in the pit of his human belly. There were so many things to feel guilt over. Standing at the pump, his gaze focused on the rear truck tire, he suddenly realized he had one more act to feel guilty about. After putting the slack-jawed young man to sleep and taking his truck, Castiel had left his body lying in the road. _In the road_. Once upon a time, he would not have considered that important—his work was simply God’s will, and collateral damage was God’s responsibility. But Dean and Sam would not have done such a thing, and despite the fact that God apparently lived, he doubted that the Lord would be cleaning up after him.

What’s more, due to residual memory of having been mortal for a time, Castiel was also forced to empathize. He hated being reminded, but he knew what it felt like to be human, helpless and hurt.

He could hear Sam’s voice in his head, “C’mon, Cas, we can’t just _leave_ the guy there!”

With a growl, Castiel shoved the pump back into its cradle, then jogged into the station to slap the money down on the counter. How much time had he wasted here? He jogged back out to the truck and climbed back into the driver’s seat. He did not wish to backtrack to where he’d left the man. Would he still be unconscious? Perhaps… Castiel had delivered a pretty strong jolt.

He started the truck, then pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed 911 as he roared out of the lot and on down the road to Lebanon. This is what Dean would want him to do, he thought… and a powerful surge of sorrow tore through him, rendering him speechless for a moment.

Dean was dead.

“Salina 911, what’s the exact location of your emergency?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Salina 911, do you have an emergency?”

“I… I need help,” Castiel managed.

“What’s your location, sir?”

“My location… I just left the Gas ‘n Sip, but you need to send someone to help a young man who’s lying in the road on Route 143, about two miles north of Pleasant Hill Road.”

“Is the man injured?”

“No, he’s not injured—he wasn’t when I left him. I rendered him unconscious to borrow his vehicle, and I’m afraid I left him in the road. I hope you’ll send someone to move him to safety.”

“You knocked him unconscious?”

“Knocked is a strong word. I didn’t strike him. I’m an angel, and I…”

“I’m going to send someone, sir. Please give me your name.”

Castiel started to reply, but then realized his error. Dean didn’t like him talking about his true identity. What he’d done would be considered a crime by human standards. He should hang up now.

So he did.

He returned the phone carefully to his pocket, slowing down to take a left turn. Dean would be rolling his eyes at Castiel right now, if he was here. But he wasn’t.

Dean was dead.

And the worst part of it was, Castiel could not seem to locate him. If he were operating at full power, their bond and his grace would surely allow him to sense Dean’s soul, no matter where it traveled. Heaven, Hell, or somewhere in between—he could have flown to his friend and comforted his frightened spirit, could perhaps have escorted him to the gates of paradise. The fact that he could not find Dean on the other side troubled him greatly. Did the problem lie with his energy level, with these confounding emotions that caused so much static, with the fact that heaven was closed to him and hell in chaos… or was it the unthinkable—that in the nuclear explosion of souls blasting outward to freedom from Dean’s body, Dean’s own beautiful soul had been obliterated?

Another surge of sorrow overpowered the angel for a moment, followed by tight clench in his gut. God… how could God allow this to happen? After all Dean had done and sacrificed? And now Sam…

Castiel jerked the wheel, braking hard as the truck swerved over onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires.

These emotions… they threatened to undo his vessel and completely undermine his focus. He struggled to get himself under control, clutching the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. But trying to contain emotions never worked—he needed to allow their chaotic energies to move on through his human body and dissipate. He released his grip, let his forehead thump against the steering wheel, took a deep breath and let his anguish out in a loud wail. Then another, followed by a hiccupping sob. A few minutes of this wretchedness was all it took; he lifted his vessel’s head, with its dripping nose and watery eyes, and felt that he could once again function. A deliberate breath to quell the shaking, and he allowed his grace to clear nose and eyes and finish calming him. At least it was capable of that much.

Sam. His mission was to find Sam. Dean wished him to take care of Sam, and he would follow through. He stoked his fiery, angelic resolve, sitting up straighter and shifting back into drive.

***

Dean was dead, and there were smears of blood on the floor in the bunker where he’d last seen Sam, and suddenly there was a strange woman in front of him, pointing a gun and threatening. He wanted nothing more than to smite her into a pile of ash in a holy millisecond, but lightning-quick reasoning lent him restraint… she wasn’t the woman who blasted him away, but she was most likely a collaborator. Perhaps she could lead him to Sam.

“Who are you?” he demanded angrily. “Where is Sam?”

And then, there was Dean.

“Wait!” Dean cried to the woman. “It’s okay, it’s okay! He’s a friend, alright?”

Castiel could scarcely fathom the sight. The woman ceased to exist for him, the rest of the room faded to black—and there was Dean, brilliant as the sun, shining as though his light had never dimmed, as though God had never taken him away from Castiel to meet his doom the day before.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said to him, reaching out.

“Dean!” Castiel blurted, and launched himself into his friend’s arms, grasping him in a tight embrace, wishing desperately for a moment that he could feel Dean’s body as easily as he could feel the mix of hesitant joy, confusion and relief pouring through his energy field right now. It was enough just to have Dean close, though—to be surrounded by his soul’s radiant light once again. He couldn’t have it both ways, he knew.

Dean was being squeamish about affection, as usual, but Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care. He pulled away, focusing again on Dean’s eyes, desiring answers. “Dean, you’re alive? What about the bomb, and the Darkness? What happened?”

“I’ll tell you all about it. I will,” Dean promised. Then he turned and introduced Castiel to Mary Winchester.

Castiel was doubly stunned. How could this be? Dean’s mother had perished at the hands of a demon when Dean was four. Yet here she was, looking very much alive—and as confused as he. Whose doing was this, and to what end?

Then Dean asked, “Where’s Sam?”

***

Castiel found himself driving again, this time behind the wheel of the Impala. Dean slouched beside him, still desperately working to track Sam’s kidnappers on the laptop via the traffic cams, while Mary sat stiffly in the back, only her eyes moving as she studied the passing scenery. Any other time, he might be enjoying the fact that Dean had allowed him to drive his beloved “Baby”—but the waves of stress and unhappiness rolling off Dean right now, and his concern for Sam, precluded any joy on Castiel’s part.

It was natural that Dean was unhappy with Sam’s disappearance—but was Dean unhappy with _him?_ Dean said he didn’t blame Castiel, but the angel nevertheless felt that there should have been something he could have done to prevent the situation. He wanted desperately to right things, but there was nothing to be done right now but to bide.

So he did what he often did in such a situation. His vessel sat stoically and operated the vehicle, while wisps of his grace, on a mission, floated over to the passenger side of the car and rubbed up against Dean like a cat, offering small comfort. Just enough to soothe… not enough to spook.  A caress of soft, warm energy flowed slowly over Dean’s tight shoulders, around his neck, down his spine. Dean groaned, sat up and stretched, closed the laptop.

“Take the next right,” he said.

“Alright,” Castiel replied. He glanced over at Dean, to notice that the knot in the middle of his forehead seemed to have loosened somewhat. Good. “Dean…” he began.

“Hmm?”

“Please tell me… what happened?”

Dean snorted, a wistful little smile crossing his face, then shook his head. He turned to Castiel and stretched an arm across the back of the seat. “Craziest thing,” he replied. “Amara and I, we had a little talk about revenge, and family, and she… seemed like she had some kind of revelation. Saw the light, you know? She realized she didn’t want to smite her lame brother after all. Just wanted him back. Then her lame brother—well he apologized or some such, and she gave him back his mojo, and they decided to go to Disneyworld together. Just… took off for a while on vacation. All smiles. God knows where—literally. And before they left, Amara said she was going to give me a present.” He nodded toward his mother in the back seat, tossing her a sideways smile. “That would be mom.”

“And the soul bomb?”

“Chuck defused me.”

Castiel frowned. “So that’s it, they just… took off? No word about Heaven or Hell or Lucifer or… or what’s to come here on Earth?”

Dean sighed. “He said you’ve got me n’ Sam _,_ ” he muttered sardonically, turning to look out the side window.

The angel’s eyes widened. “He left YOU in charge?”

“Hell, no! Jesus, we better all hope not! No… to answer your previous question… no word of advice on a single damn thing.”

Scowling, Castiel fastened his gaze back on the road and drew his grace back up inside himself. Suddenly he realized he was filled with anger, his vessel sitting stiffly, his heart pounding inside his chest. He could scarcely breathe, and the fact that he even had to was serving to piss him off even further. This wasn’t just anger—this was resentment, bitterness… rage!

“Dude,” Dean said after a minute, jarring him from his silent seethe, “Hey, c’mon, you’re doing like 100. The old girl might not mind it— but I friggin’ do. _Slow down_.”

***

Something in Castiel identified with Mary Winchester and her predicament. Feeling like a stranger in your own skin. Like old wine poured into a new wineskin. Like a baby in a trench coat.

Being “family,” but yet an outsider.

He understood her anxiety with all the newness, and her longing for what she’d lost. And he found himself attracted to her quick and lively soul.

Once Sam had been recovered and healed under his hands, and the four of them settled uneasily into the bunker, Castiel found that he and Mary quickly established a pattern of late-night chats. She, troubled by insomnia and a non-existent circadian rhythm… and he, a seraph who need not sleep. A seraph still recovering, however, from sharing a vessel with an angry archangel for a little too long.

After the first night or two, he found himself looking forward to their conversation. He was learning things—not only about the Winchesters and the Campbells, but about himself.

He heard footsteps shuffling down the hallway, and he stepped into the kitchen doorway to meet her, a cup of decaffeinated coffee in his hand. “Here,” he said gently. “Will you come sit?”

She smiled tiredly but warmly at him, and reached for the steaming mug. “Ah,” she said. “If I’d known guardian angels made such good coffee, I’d have looked into finding one years ago.”

Castiel smiled back and gave a little shrug, and Mary’s hand bumped the coffee mug, splashing the scorching liquid onto the angel’s hand and sleeve.

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She jumped over to the sink, turning on the cold tap. “Here, come here…”

Castiel set the mug down and stepped over to her, but turned off the sink. “It’s alright,” he assured her, “I wasn’t burned.” He held out the dripping hand, then ran his other palm over it, drying the skin and the sleeve. “See? My grace protects me from injury.” He blinked, remembering the beating he’d taken from the woman of letters just a couple days ago. “Well… unless magical brass knuckles or an angel blade are involved.”

Brows arched ( _just like Dean_ , Castiel noted), Mary reached out and took his hand, examining it. “That’s pretty incredible.” She looked up at him, thoughtful. “So, you’re in a human vessel, but you’re not vulnerable like a human. Even if you are injured, you can heal yourself. Sort of like the more powerful demons and monsters.” She looked back down at his hand, then glanced up again sheepishly, shaking her head. “I’m not suggesting you’re a monster. You obviously use your powers to help, and to heal others. Like you did with Sam.”

Castiel blinked, not sure what to say.

Mary’s mouth quirked. “I’ll bet those boys keep you pretty busy.”

The angel couldn’t help but smirk a little at that. “Sam and Dean can be a full-time job.”

Mary’s gaze turned down the hallway, toward the bedrooms. She picked up the dripping coffee cup and took a sip, then sighed. “Poor Sam was in a lot of pain with those burns. I’m sure glad you were there to help.”

“It was the least I could do, after letting them take him.”

“We all know that wasn’t your fault.” Mary took Castiel’s healed hand again gently, and led him over to the table to sit down. She didn’t let go. “You’re a good friend.”

He nodded, slowly, not taking his eyes off her.

“So the hot coffee… it didn’t hurt? You felt no pain?”

“No pain. As long as the energy of my grace is healthy—vibrating above a particular wavelength—I feel no pain in this vessel.”

“And you don’t need to sleep, you don’t eat or drink, really…” Mary mused. “How are you keeping your body alive?”

“My grace is its energy, so it normally needs no food or rest,” he replied. “Perhaps the simplest way to explain it is that I am energizing and operating the body from the outside, rather than the inside. I’m not fully engaged with the brain. Therefore I don’t feel the body’s pain.”

Mary squeezed his hand, meeting his eyes. “Does that mean you feel no pleasure, either?”

“Oh…” Castiel sat up a little straighter. “No… I… I do feel pleasure. I am often very happy when I’m with Dean and Sam. I enjoy talking and traveling with them. Sometimes they relax and joke with me, and it’s wonderful, but I also appreciate the times I’m able to help them in adversity. Dean says he needs me. It pleases me to help him in his important work.”

Mary’s smile returned. “He’s lucky to have you, Castiel. But what I’m asking is, do you feel _sensual_ pleasure?” She held his hand in both of hers and gently massaged his fingers, from the palm to the tips. “Does that feel good to you?”

Castiel tilted his head, looking down at their hands and considering. “No,” he admitted softly. “I can’t feel it like a human would. My grace is aware that you’re touching my hand in a kind and gentle manner, which pleases me, but I can’t feel your skin against mine.” He sighed. “That I do regret.”

She stopped rubbing, and simply clasped his hand again. “That’s too bad, isn’t it? So… you can’t feel. Does that also mean you can’t smell, or taste, or… hear or see like humans?”

“I don’t perceive the world as humans do. But I have. I know what it’s like to engage these senses. I was human once, for a while, when I lost my grace. It was a frightening and confusing time. I remember being hungry and hurt and exhausted and cold… and worse. But I also remember peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and music, and puzzles, and the smell of food cooking. And hot showers. And sexual intercourse. Those were good things.”

“Yes,” she laughed, “those _are_ good things. Nothing like a good PB&J.”

She fell silent and pensive for a time, and seemed to be studying him while she sipped her coffee. When she spoke again, he was surprised. “You may not have human senses, Castiel, but I’ve noticed that you have some very human emotions.”

He lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, but his face didn’t belie the sudden twist of guilt her words caused deep inside of him. As if she’d caught him doing something wrong, for which he should repent. “How so?” he said carefully.

“Well,” she said slyly, “On the outside, you appear very stoic. Poker-faced. But in the few days I’ve known you, I’ve seen you angry and vengeful, I’ve seen you compassionate and empathetic, I’ve seen you… I don’t know… ashamed, relieved, confused, excited. Somehow, though, it’s as if you try to hide it. Why?”

Castiel drew his hand away from her, looking down and dropping it into his lap. “Hunters are very perceptive,” he muttered.

“Castiel… I’m not judging you. I’m just curious, because I’ve met a lot of creatures, but never an angel.” Her voice was kind, and drew his gaze back to her face. “Is it at all common for angels to have human emotions? Or to spend so much time with people? In a human vessel?”

“No, it isn’t,” a male voice piped in.

Castiel turned his head to see Dean in his gray robe, leaning in the doorway. Dean smirked at him. How long had he been there?

“Cas here has a heart, and a mind of his own. Most angels are d—… uh…” Dean cleared his throat, scowling, flailed his right hand a little. “Y’know… jerks with wings. Ruthless robots. Like _The Terminator_ with feathers.”

Mary quirked an eyebrow. “ _The Terminator_ , Dean?”

“You don’t… oh, that came out after…”

Dean seemed to be making himself uncomfortable, Castiel noted. The angel turned to Mary with a little smile, choosing once again to ignore Dean’s base evaluation of his siblings. “Dean and I have a special bond,” he told her. “We work together often. And this vessel has proven very reliable and resilient over the years. It’s mine now; there’s no need to return it—Jimmy’s soul has passed on.”

“Yeah, I’ve uh… kinda gotten used to this face. It grows on you.” Dean sauntered over to stand by Castiel’s side and chucked him playfully on the chin, meeting his gaze briefly but fondly. “Plus, his real one would burn your eyes out.”

Moments like this—when Dean’s soul spoke through his mouth and glowed through his bright green eyes—Castiel cherished them. He felt oddly warm and humbled, pleasantly surprised by Dean’s affection.

Mary chuckled. “Dean, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you just made your guardian angel blush.”

 

_Author's Note: My biggest question about the end of Season 11 was why on Earth Castiel couldn't care less about Chuck/God when he finally showed up? If that intrigued you like it did me, read on. If you liked this, please leave love and thoughts!_


	2. Sympathy for the Devil

Castiel strolled along slowly behind Sam, carefully navigating the big blue cart through the produce section of the Concordia Walmart Supercenter. Mary had gone her own way a few aisles back, then Dean had peeled off and headed to Automotive. Castiel had tried to follow, but Sam reached a long arm out and grabbed the front of the cart, keeping the angel behind him.

“Gonna need you with _me_ , Cas,” Sam had said.

So Cas trailed along silently as Sam collected a head of lettuce, some green peppers and tomatoes, and added them to the cart. Now they stopped in front of the citrus fruits, and Sam picked up and examined a bag of oranges.

“You’ve been pretty quiet this morning,” Sam said nonchalantly, apparently finding the oranges to his liking. He put them in the cart, then turned to look Castiel in the eye. “Something on your mind?”

Cas knew it was the Winchester way to answer negatively to such a question, but he wasn’t really in the mood for obfuscating.

“I can’t stop thinking about Lucifer,” Castiel admitted.

Sam blanched a little, straightening up. Then his eyes slid sideways, to an old woman standing close behind them and fingering okra on the opposite side of the aisle. Castiel turned to follow Sam’s gaze and squinted at the woman, who was staring at him wide-eyed. She muttered what sounded like “Dios mio” under her breath and scooted quickly away.

Sam looked slightly exasperated. “ _Inside_ voice, Cas,” he urged softly. He walked a few more feet and selected a bunch of bananas. “So, uh, what about him?”

“Well, Dean is alive, and the Universe is back in balance, and your mother is here—but in all the happiness, you two seem to have forgotten that we may still have a big problem afoot,” Cas replied. “Amara tore Lucifer away from me, but for all we know, he still walks the Earth.”

Sam nodded, walking around to the next aisle, Castiel following with the cart. “Believe me, we haven’t forgotten. We just need a breather, Cas, then we’re on it.”

“I’m not suggesting it’s your problem to take care of, by any means,” Castiel said. “After all, I’m the one who released him.”

Sam stopped in front of a pistachio display to grab a bag. “You were trying to help. Hell, _he_ even tried to help. It was worth a try.”

“Apparently it wasn’t,” Castiel growled unhappily. “It accomplished nothing in the end, except to loose Satan upon an unsuspecting world. And now…” He closed his eyes, feeling the anger rising in his throat again, making his heart pound and his breathing quicken. Why? Why was it he couldn’t feel his vessel’s fingers closed around the cart handle, but he could feel this rage in his gut? A rage caused by his own impotence and stupidity, he told himself. When would he stop making the wrong choices? And why was _he_ continually given these choices to make? He being a lowly seraph, and not, apparently, to be trusted with such weighty matters…

“Cas… Cas! _Hey…”_ Sam was hissing at him, and he turned his awareness outward again, before opening his eyes. He looked down to see that he’d cracked the shopping cart handle. “You ok?” Sam asked.

Castiel took a deep breath, a shudder running through him, then sighed it out slowly. He ran his fingers over the broken handle, mending it again. “Yes,” he said flatly, “I’m ok. But something must be done.”

Sam laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cas. We’ll do something. All of us, together.”

Dean suddenly appeared, carrying two cases of motor oil with an apple pie balanced on top. “Blue Light Specials,” he announced cheerfully. “Cas, grab that pie.”

“Dude, that’s K-mart.”

“What’s K-mart?”

“Blue Light Specials.”

Dean finished sliding the motor oil onto the bottom rack of the cart and stood up again. “Where’s Mom? And why is this cart full of rabbit food?”

Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Feminine hygiene aisle,” he supplied, before starting in the direction of a bank of strawberries.

“Oh…” Dean said, trailing after him, with Cas and the cart bringing up the rear. “Oh hell… that’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Well think about it, Sam… she’s our mom, but she’s… damn, she’s _younger than I am._ And if she’s still…” Sam stopped and turned to see Dean waggling his fingers in the vicinity of his intestines, “y’know… riding the menstrual train… she could make us another brother.”

“Dude, _stop._ Here she comes.”

***

That night, long into the wee hours, Castiel sat in front of Sam’s laptop in the kitchen, searching the web for signs of Lucifer’s presence. There were unexplained deaths… single bodies and whole families with eyes burned out… in locations and situations apparently unrelated. Castiel pondered each case, looking for a pattern, for some thread of continuity or logic, but finding none. Resisting a rising feeling of frustration, he finally stood up, closing the laptop, and decided to make his rounds of the bunker.

Apparating from one room to the next made less noise, and when people were sleeping, he didn’t have to worry about startling them visually. So he slipped into Sam’s dark bedroom and watched him for a moment or two. Sam took up the entire bed, limbs sprawled, blankets a tangled mess, one bare leg sticking out uncovered on the mattress. The man lay half on his stomach, muttering a little in his sleep. His exposed leg was flush with goosebumps. Castiel reached out and gently straightened the blankets, covering Sam again without awakening him. Sam moaned out a sigh, and Castiel felt a spreading warmth in his breast that he had learned to recognize as deep fondness. One of the many human variants of love.

Dean kept a small nightlight on in his room, and Castiel was never sure about whether to fully materialize there. He usually stayed hidden from view, lest Dean wake up and “freak out,” as he might put it. Dean lay on his back, snoring softly, and Castiel could tell from the topography of the blankets that Dean was sleeping with his hand in his briefs again. He often liked to cradle his genitals while he slept. Or perhaps he’d fallen asleep masturbating.

Hovering close to the bed, not quite visible to the human eye, Castiel thought about how many times he’d watched Dean masturbate. He supposed Dean wouldn’t like him watching, and wondered if that should make him feel ashamed. He’d rather not feel ashamed… so he wouldn’t, he decided stubbornly.

Watching Dean was special to him. A human might find it sexually stimulating, he knew, but that wasn’t a normal motivation for an angel. The attraction for him, he told himself, wasn’t the way Dean bit his lush bottom lip… nor the way the pink head of his cock peeked above the band of his flannel pants when Dean lay back and reached a hand inside. It wasn’t the tug and slide of Dean’s palm over his own hot flesh… the subtle thrust of hips… the panting, or the throaty grunts he tried to muffle. Nor was it the shuddering ejaculation—semen spilling over his hand onto his bared belly. It certainly wasn’t the sexually explicit Japanese anime playing on the laptop that kept Castiel coming back.

No, Castiel’s favorite part was the moment of Dean’s orgasm when the world’s turning slowed and Dean bloomed like a flower—lips parting, cheeks flushing and body lifting as he opened and quivered in surrender, flesh and soul rejoicing together in peaceful bliss. It was, indeed, the way Dean had reacted when Castiel first resurrected him, cradling the man’s brand new body and ransomed soul within his own being as they merged once again, and Castiel’s energy sparked Dean’s heart back to life. The angel never tired of seeing it, and never tired of knowing that in just those few seconds, Dean was wholly and truly happy.

And when Dean was happy, all was right in the Universe.

Castiel smiled and sent a soft wave of gratitude and adoration into Dean’s dreams. Then he flickered back out to the hallway.

There was a strange noise emanating from the dark library, drawing him out of his reverie. Upon investigating, Castiel found Mary there, wrapped in a blanket and curled into a leather armchair. He walked quietly over to where she sat in the corner and knelt at her feet.

“Mary,” he asked softly, “are you crying?”

She sighed, sniffling, and tried to regain some composure, dabbing at her eyes with a shredded tissue.

“Would you like to talk about what’s troubling you?” He laid a hand on her knee and waited, tilting his head to watch her, and finally she looked up at him.

“Castiel, it’s kind of you to ask. But I’m not sure I completely _understand_ what’s troubling me,” she replied. “I mean, here I am back in Kansas with my two wonderful sons, and it’s a miracle, and I’ve been given another chance at life… but all I can do is grieve my dead husband and my little boys. I felt I was with them in heaven—but that wasn’t even real. This is real. Or is it? That… that car out in the garage feels more real than any of this—than any of _you._ Am I making any sense?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. You are.”

“Dean and Sam… they don’t know how to feel about me. _I_ don’t know how to feel about me. Or them. I should _love_ them—they’re my children. But I don’t even know them…” she said, her voice breaking.

Castiel contemplated her words for a moment. The situation seemed fairly straightforward, but the emotions it engendered were complicated. It was a common and confounding problem for humans, and he wished there was something he could do to fix it for her. “Emotions…” he growled. “I will never understand why God created such nefarious sensations. They make humanity so difficult to endure.”

Mary laughed weakly. “Oh, you can say that again.”

Cas paused. “Do you really want me to?”

She let her head fall back against the chair, reaching down blindly to find and pat his hand on her knee. “No need, sweetie,” she sighed.

He stood up and went to drag another chair over, so he could sit close to her. “Would you like me to put you to sleep tonight, so you can rest?” he offered.

She lifted her head. “Tempting as that is, I’ll pass,” she said with a wan smile and a bit of a worried look. “Listen, don’t fret about me. I feel a little better already.” She sat up straighter, smoothing Sam’s big t-shirt over her knees. “It helps to have somebody to talk to, Cas. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, glad to be of service. Then he did something that surprised himself.

“Of what use are emotions?” he blurted. He perched on the edge of the chair, leaning forward over his knees. “Can you tell me? I find I’m experiencing them more and more, and I don’t know why, or what to do…”

Once upon a time—or more accurately, before he had any awareness of time, which didn’t exist in Heaven—his inner life had been much simpler. In the constant presence of God, he was bathed in Divine Love Itself, and he had complete faith in that life-giving Source that created and sustained him—even if he’d never actually seen it. Sent out into the Universe on a mission, his energy never wavered, his feeling only and always a fierce devotion to God, his siblings, and his task. Until he’d experienced the dense matter of human form—and the absence of God—he had never known doubt, or fear, or anger, or any of the other subtler energies and emotions, positive or negative, that came with life on Earth. Now, his energetic field seemed to be rife with them, and his energy level waxed and waned like the moon. A moon with no planet to orbit.

Mary raised her eyebrows—she looked surprised, too, at his query. “Of what use…” she echoed. “That’s… that’s a good question, now isn’t it?” She looked down at the tissue in her hands, twisting it a little, pondering. “Well,” she answered, “my best guess is that they help point to what’s important in our lives. We humans have a tendency to try to fool ourselves—but sadness, or guilt, or envy… or love… sneaks up on us and makes us face the truth. If we’re smart, we examine what it is we’re feeling, and maybe take some action to right what’s wrong. If we ignore our feelings, or drown them in alcohol, for instance…”

“Like Dean does…”

“Oh dear… well… if we do that, we put off dealing with something important. Something that will keep returning until we set it right.”

Castiel frowned, amazed. “You’re saying I should not take these feelings lightly, then?”

Mary shook her head, smiling softly, her red and puffy eyes crinkling. “No, you shouldn’t. And neither should I. It sounds like we _all_ have some important issues to deal with.”

***

**Weeks later…**

Standing on the sidewalk a block away from Club Meteor in downtown Los Angeles, Dean could feel the exhaustion setting in as the adrenalin dissipated. Amazingly, they were all still alive, including a clueless crowd of hair-metal fans, shell-shocked but heading home safe to their families—and Lucifer, who was now sans fan club and somewhere in the wind. As Dean’s killjoy companions had to point out, though, there _were_ casualties—namely Vince Vincente and his douchey band.

And of course, they’d only won this battle; the rest of the war still lay ahead.

“We will stop him—we will. It’s what we do,” Dean concluded confidently—as much to reassure himself as anybody else. He hoped he was right.

Sam started toward the Impala, but Dean hesitated, turning toward the angel and the demon still lingering on the curb.

“You, uh… you coming with us?” he asked Castiel, trying not to be irritated by the giddy hopefulness rising in his chest. The angel blinked at him, then turned to Crowley, who looked mildly insulted.

“Well I know I _look_ like chopped liver, but—really?”

Castiel’s bruises and cuts from their smackdown with Lucifer seemed to have already healed, but Crowley still appeared to have gone twelve rounds with Rocky Balboa. Dean almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

“Crowley… you know I’d heal you right now if I could,” Castiel said to him sincerely, “but if I touch you…”

“That’s alright, mate, I’ve already got a big enough headache,” the demon replied. “Don’t need your magic fingers finishing the job.” He leered over at Dean through his one good eye. “But maybe Squirrel does. Sounds like he’s missed you.”

Dean scowled and started to retort, but the King of Hell raised a hand and waved it dismissively. “Go on then, you lot, have your pajama party without me. I didn’t want an invite anyway.”

And with that he disappeared.

***

“Jesus—Crowley really took one for the team, huh?” Dean commented once they were underway, city streetlights sweeping the interior of the Impala in washes of pale orange as they passed. It felt right to have Castiel back with them again; he always felt better when he knew where Cas was.

And right now the angel was in the backseat, giving the world the stinkeye out the rear passenger window.

“I’ll say,” Sam answered, slouched against the passenger door. “This was a goat rope, but it really could’ve gone a lot worse. Sending Cas and Crowley in on a suicide mission isn’t gonna be Plan A next time. We need to be better prepared.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, you got that right.” He flicked his eyes again to the rear view mirror. “Hey, you got any ideas, Cas?”

Castiel tore his attention from the world outside to meet Dean’s gaze. “ _What?”_ he growled.

Dean frowned at the angel’s irritable tone. He sounded a little too much like low-blood-sugar-Sam. “I said, ‘you got any ideas?’ About being better prepared next time?”

“Next time we find Lucifer? _No_.” Cas said shortly.

Dean glanced at Sam, who threw him a raised eyebrow. He took a deep breath to keep from saying something snide about PMS, then it hit him. Of course…

“Hey… listen, buddy,” he said gently but firmly, “if you’re still feeling guilty about Lucifer, you can stop. We all had a part to play in him escaping the cage. Sam and I both know it’s not on you. And you did what you could tonight.”

Dean could see a muscle twitch and tighten in Cas’ jaw, but the angel simply looked away again without speaking. The tension in the car suddenly felt thick enough to slice, and Dean decided he could really use a drink.

An uncomfortable silence lasted until they had entered the highway, then Sam straightened up in his seat, and with a meaningful glance to Dean, turned himself around to look at Cas.

“Y’know, Cas,” he began, “despite everything that twisted sonofabitch has done to me, I can almost sympathize with what Lucifer said.”

Castiel’s eyes widened a little.

“You know—when he complained that Chuck… er… _God…_ finally apologized for abandoning him, then up and ditched him all over again after he tried to help with Amara. He seemed genuinely hurt.”

Castiel’s mouth tightened into a line. “What’s your point, Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “Well, just that I can understand why he’s angry at God right now—and I could understand why you’d be just as mad.”

Dean looked in the rearview to see Cas’ face run an obstacle course of surprise, horror and anger. “Sam, you… I…. I am not like him!” the angel sputtered.

“No, hey…” Sam reached out a placating hand, “I’m not implying you’re like Lucifer, I’m just… I’m just saying that he’s got a point. Don’t you think?”

Castiel sat ramrod straight, his face now a mask of righteous indignation. “It is not an angel’s place to question God’s actions,” he ground out. “When God left Heaven the first time, I was devastated—but I told myself God had a reason, that it was not my job to question, that it was all God’s will and his incomprehensible divine plan. I told myself that I would continue to serve God and Heaven faithfully and without reservation until He returned.”

Dean knew bullshit when he smelled it. “ _WHAT?_ That’s the biggest line of…”

“Dean, hold on…” Sam pled, touching his brother’s shoulder.

“We all know I _failed_ miserably,” the angel conceded bitterly. “But I kept trying, over and over… I did not give in to anger or despair.”

“Never mind all that Raphael-Purgatory-Leviathan-Angel-Tablet stuff,” Sam insisted. “That’s ancient history. What I really want to know is, if you truly are _not_ angry with God, why did you completely _ignore_ Him when He showed up to save us from Amara?”

Castiel’s mouth clamped shut; he suddenly looked stricken.

“When Chuck was _dying_ in the bunker, and we were all trying to figure out what to do to keep the world from ending… why did you go with Dean on a beer run? Why did you—angel of the Lord—leave the Lord to me and… and _Rowena_ to take care of? And _Crowley_ , for Pete’s sake?”

Cas just stared, wide-eyed and blinking.

“C’mon, Cas, there must have been something going on. You barely said two words to Him…”

Dean suddenly felt sorry for the angel, who looked desperately unhappy. “Sam, what the hell…?” he began.

“Did you really not notice, Dean? When Chuck blinked us all back to the bunker and Cas asked _YOU_ what we should do? God was right there!”

Dean looked back at Castiel and opened his mouth to say something soothing, but his first word was drowned out by the angel’s low, anguished moan. Castiel clamped his hands over his face, blurted something in broken Enochian—then vanished completely.

Dean sat gaping and stunned for a moment, then rounded on his brother. “What the hell was _that_ —the Spanish Inquisition?”

Sam ran a hand through his long hair, looking into the backseat, then over at Dean. “Man, I guess I hit a nerve.”

“You _think?”_ Dean snapped. He turned his attention to the ether. “Cas, c’mon back buddy, Sam didn’t mean to be an ass…”

“Dean… I was trying to get to the bottom of things. Have you not noticed how he’s been acting lately? First, an angel of the Lord won’t give the Lord the time of day. Then, when the Lord bails on him, he _acts_ like he doesn’t care, but for some reason he’s on a hair trigger. It’s like all of a sudden he needs anger management. He never even used to get mad.”

“He’s upset about Lucifer, dude—not God. Big brother got the best of him and it’s pissing him off like it pisses you off. _Right, Cas?_ ”

“You really think that’s all of it? Because he just had a meltdown when we were talking about _God.”_

“Yeah, maybe because you accused him of being as shitty as Lucifer. _Which he’s NOT,”_ Dean said loudly in case anyone invisible was listening.

“Of _course_ he’s not,” Sam groaned in exasperation. “Where the hell could he have gone? I thought he couldn’t fly.”

“Well if he’s not in the back doing the invisible sulk, then he’s…” Dean sat up, suddenly worried. He looked again in the rearview—no Cas in the backseat, no Cas visible behind them on the shoulder of the road. “Dammit, Cas.”

He wasn’t sure how much time and gas he wasted getting off the highway, then back on again in the opposite direction, circling back an exit to where Cas disappeared, driving slowly and craning his neck to make sure the stubborn angel wasn’t lying in the ditch, or hitchhiking his way home. He circled around that way twice.

Sam tried apologetically to call the angel back, to no avail.

“Dean, we oughta talk about this…” Sam began a couple times as the miles rolled by, in that bitchy voice that got on Dean’s nerves when the last thing he wanted was to talk. He told Sam to talk to the hand.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean prayed under his breath as Sam eventually nodded off, “You know we’re not mad at you. Sam’s just trying to figure shit out. Come on back. I hate it when you disappear. C’mon, man. I need you here. Please.”


	3. Beast of Burden

Nearly twenty-four hours passed before Sam saw Cas again. Twenty-four hours of being greeted as “The Inquisitor” and “Judge Judy” and the like every time Dean ventured from his room—which was seldom since they’d arrived back home at the bunker. Sam worried that besides a grudge, Dean might be nursing another concussion; come morning he would also be nursing a hangover, if the fifth of Jack that Dean bought on the way home was any indication. It really didn’t matter that Sam had apologized three times for “driving Cas away;” Dean seemed determined to mope around and punish him until the angel returned.

Sighing, Sam closed his laptop and leaned back in the chair, stretching long legs out in front of him and long arms overhead until his shoulder popped. While he’d been surprised at (and intrigued by) Castiel’s reaction in the car early that morning, he really _wasn’t_ shocked that Dean hadn’t noticed Cas’ odd behavior around Chuck and Amara. Dean had a way of focusing on one thing at a time, starting with what was most pressing—like the end of the world—and back-burnering other issues until their time came. Sam had shelved the thought himself when it looked like Dean’s own time had come; but now Dean was back, and Cas was acting weirder than ever. Not in a possessed-by-evil-entities way, or a misguided-angel-hiding-his-latest-diabolical-scheme way, but in a messed-up, human sort of way. An all-out-avoidance, surly Dean-Winchester-doesn’t-do-feelings sort of way. Sam felt like it was somehow all connected, and he was toying with a theory…

He opened his eyes and startled violently to see Castiel in the chair across from him. “Cas! Shit, you scared me…” He clamped a hand over his thudding heart, as if to keep it under his breastbone. “Where’ve you been?”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel replied in his usual stiff fashion. “I’ve been… around.”

Sam had figured as much.

“I’ve needed time to think,” the angel added. “About what you said.”

“Yeah?” Sam shook off his fright, sat up and leaned forward, forearms on the table. _Here we go._ He fixed Cas with his most empathetic gaze. “So hit me—what is it you’ve been thinking?”

Castiel mirrored Sam’s posture. “I’m thinking that you’re right, Sam,” he said solemnly. “When I recalled the events you spoke of… well, frankly, I was appalled.”

It was at that moment that Dean padded into the room in his socks, looking slightly glassy-eyed but not overly impaired. “Listen, Bitch, you… hey… _Cas_!”

“Hello, Dean. This is good, I’d… like to talk to you both.”

“Where have you _been_? You wanna _talk_ … gosh, that sounds important… what… you go off to Vegas and get married or something?” Dean punctuated his cranky rant with some creative hand-waving. “Shit, you just throw a bitch fit and disappear on the highway and never come back, never call… I’ve been praying to you for _hours_ , man!”

“Married? No, I…” Castiel’s voice dropped off as he realized it was a joke. “No, Dean, I simply needed some time to myself. Please…” Castiel gestured to the table. “Sit.”

Scowling, Dean plopped himself into a chair. Castiel fixed them both with his attention, then began what sounded like a carefully rehearsed speech.

“When God left Heaven, as you know, I was devastated. I told myself that I had no right to question, though, and that I would…”

“I know,” Dean interrupted, “serve God and Heaven to the best of your ability until He returned, blah, blah, blah…”

 _“Dean,”_ Sam chastised.

“Yes,” Cas answered, unperturbed. “You see, I really did believe that He’d return someday. And in my mind, when God came back, things would return to normal again. I would be back in Heaven, surrounded by His love and my brothers and sisters. I would feel peace and clear purpose again. It would be _good…_ ”

He sighed, and raised his eyes to Sam again. “I was terribly naïve.”

Sam lifted a hand to Dean without even looking at him, staying his snide remark.

“When He finally did return,” Cas continued, “…when I stood in his presence again… I knew right away—things would never be the same. When we were all together here… I couldn’t _look_ at Him, Sam. I didn’t feel His love. I felt… I can’t even describe what I felt.” Cas turned in his chair to look at Dean, his face drawn. “When Amara smote Him and upset the Universal balance, my only fear was for _you_ , Dean. _You_ were the one who had to fix it. God was powerless. God was going to let you sacrifice yourself to correct something He should never have allowed to happen!”

“So you’re pissed at God. Join the club,” Dean said to the angel. “But Cas, you know Amara’s hissy fit was my fault. _I_ took the mark, and _I_ released the Darkness when Rowena removed it. It was my responsibility to...”

“Don’t make excuses for Him! It was ALL His fault!” Cas insisted loudly. “If He hadn’t done the things he did… If he hadn’t left Heaven and abandoned all His children… this whole chain of events would never have occurred!” Castiel pushed his chair away from the table, leaping up to pace the floor angrily. “I once blamed Gadreel for this planet’s problems. I’ve blamed Michael and Raphael and Metatron and Naomi and Lucifer and _myself_ as well—but I was wrong! So many things should never have happened! So many terrible choices should never have been ours to make! God abandoned us beneath the crushing wheel of the Apocalypse, and now God has come and gone again, leaving us with an evil, maniacal fucking _archangel_ to vanquish who’s even angrier this time around. So, yes! Yes, I am pissed at God! For all of it!”

A lightbulb exploded in a sconce as Castiel stalked past, and Sam winced, glancing over at Dean—who was looking increasingly edgy, as if lightning might streak through the ceiling at any moment and strike them all down for this blasphemy.

Sam couldn’t stay in his chair. He jumped up, too, and strode around the edge of the table, running his hands through his hair, the gears of his mind spinning. “So Cas, why did you say you’re _appalled_ with yourself?” Sam queried. “Is it wrong for you to be angry at God?”

Castiel stopped pacing and grabbed the back of a chair. “ _Lucifer_ is angry at God—and look what that’s done to him. What it’s done to all of us! When you said I was angry too, Sam, I suddenly saw it so clearly. I AM angry, and it’s rather frightening. Lucifer and I, we’ve shared this vessel intimately. I tried not to let him influence me… but I wonder…”

“Dude, you _aren’t_ becoming Lucifer,” Dean insisted. He sat up straight, hands on his knees, and looked at Cas hard. “You said it—you’re not like him. _Everyone’s_ been pissed at God at some point—that doesn’t make us all evil!”

Castiel sighed, his head bowing and shoulders dropping as he visibly tried to calm himself. He took a deep breath, nodding. “Lucifer’s evil comes from his anger and resentment. He is _enraged_ at God. He _hates_ God…” Cas looked up. “But I don’t, Dean. I’ve realized that I don’t need to expend energy on anger and hate...”

“Well, heck… that’s good…”

“…Or on _God_ , for that matter. I am forgiving God and moving on, as they say. As for Lucifer, I pity him. I feel pity for all the host, because I have something now that they don’t.”

Dean crooked an eyebrow. “And what’s _that_?” he asked. Sam could detect a tone of suspicion in his voice.

“Someone to serve, Dean. I have someone… someone _worthy_ … to serve.”

Sam slipped back a few steps to lean against a bookshelf, out of Dean’s field of view, his fingers gripping the smoothly finished oak behind him. He swallowed hard. Somehow he knew what was coming next… he’d been right all along… and he knew Dean wasn’t going to like it.

“Uh…” Dean began.

Castiel began to walk slowly around the table to where Dean perched on the edge of his chair. “Angels need to serve. We were created for it. If we don’t serve, we are at best unhappy and lost, or at worst, narcissistic and destructive. Like Lucifer or Metatron, or even Gabriel. For a time, after God left, I continued to try to serve Him… and to serve Heaven. I tried to serve you and Sam, too, and humanity, and at times, perhaps even my own selfish ends. There were too many masters, and things became confusing—I made foolish choices, and the result was chaos and ruination. I was a miserable, misguided creature and I did wrong…”

Castiel finally arrived in front of Dean, and stopped. “But now I’ve chosen, Dean. Now I’m ready to make a new vow. The path I must take is laid out before me. I am and must be an angel of the Lord—and _you_ are my Lord.”

 _“Shit…”_ Sam breathed, and he hated himself for just a hot minute for wanting to laugh at the way Dean’s eyebrows buried themselves in his hairline.

“Wait… wait, wait, whoa… hold it right there,” Dean stammered, flinging a hand out to stay his friend.

But Castiel was already dropping to his knees, and as the brothers looked on, stunned, the angel began to glow. A soft light filled the room, and a clean, bright, humming energy, and the dark shadows of enormous wings suddenly cloaked the walls and ceiling overhead. Gazing up at Dean, light in his eyes, Castiel spoke emphatically for a moment or two in Enochian, then quickly translated into words that Dean could understand.

“Favor me, your humble servant, with your presence, and honor me with your trust, o beautiful and Righteous One. For I…”

“Wha… Cas, no! Come… come on, man! Get up!” Dean cried.

“For I was made to serve One such as you…”

Dean slid from his chair to crouch in front of the kneeling angel. “No, Cas,” he begged, “Don’t do this. Come on, why _me_?”

Castiel interrupted his own speech with a frown. “You are the Righteous Man, Dean! You have saved this world again and again, when God couldn’t or wouldn’t. God gave up on his creation—but you never will!”

Still gaping, Dean twisted around to look for Sam. “Are you hearing this? Help me out here!”

Sam just shook his head, biting his lip now to keep from breaking into an idiotic smile that was probably just nerves, he told himself. This wasn’t actually funny.

Dean turned back to Cas, and his voice was beginning to sound angry. “Fuck, dude, c’mon, quit messing with me!” He lurched to his feet. “We’re Team Free Will here… what happened to free will? What’s this _servant_ crap?”

“You have taught me the meaning of free will, Dean. And my will is to serve you!”

Was it Sam’s imagination, or was that glow starting to dim?

“No… Cas… just…” Dean grabbed his head, glaring helplessly down at his friend for a moment, then turned away; Sam caught just a glimpse of the anguish on his face. “…God, no. _Hell_ , no. FUCK NO! Just…  NO, Goddammit!!” Dean bellowed, then stomped out of the room and down the hall, not looking back. Sam heard the bedroom door slam.

Castiel’s glow disappeared.

Sam’s heart sank. He found himself slowly walking over to the angel, where he remained kneeling on the linoleum floor, and crouching down gingerly to face him. “Cas?”

Castiel stared at the chair where Dean had been, looking puzzled and slightly pale.

“Cas, you ok?”

No response. The muffled chords of Pink Floyd’s _Young Lust_ began vibrating down the hall.

“Hey… hey, buddy, listen…” Sam reached out and touched Cas’ shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry. Dean didn’t mean to be a jerk… and neither did I.” How the hell to explain? _Servant?_ Didn’t Cas know by now how that would go over?

Cas folded his hands limply in his lap. The corners of his mouth turned down, ever so slightly. Then he lifted a hand to swipe carefully at his right eye.

Sam watched as Cas held his finger up and silently examined the glistening droplet trembling there.  “I wish your mother were here, Sam,” he finally said, softly. “I want to ask her—because I can’t understand—of what possible use are tears?”

***

Castiel skulked just inside Dean’s bedroom, just outside of visibility once again. Dean lay atop the bed covers, curled on his side and breathing loudly, a half-empty whiskey bottle on the table close to his head. The lamp cast a golden glow, lighting Dean’s freckles and the reddish lashes that lay on his cheeks, and shining off his moist lower lip. His relaxed face appeared peaceful in sleep, but Castiel knew it was only a façade. Inside, the man’s stomach churned, his liver was working overtime, and the darkness in his mind—the guilt, self-loathing, sadness and confusion, not to mention the alcoholic fog—was like a cold, wet blanket on his soul.

Castiel could relate. He thought by now he’d be used to feeling like the universe’s biggest dumbass, but the feeling never got old. Tonight, he thought that feeling might crush him. He had disapparated before his humiliation could worsen; somehow, though, Sam seemed to know that he remained in the room. The man had lifted himself back into one of the library chairs, and proceeded to tell Castiel gently just why Dean had reacted so poorly to the angel’s impassioned proposal.

_Dean got upset because you pushed his buttons._

_He doesn’t do pedestals, number one. Doesn’t matter how many times he kills friggin’ Hitler or stops the Apocalypse or saves the Universe. He still thinks he doesn’t deserve you._

_Number two, he already feels responsible for everyone and every shitty thing that happens. He feels responsible for me, for mom, for Jody... I’m sure he feels responsible for you, too, but he doesn’t need to feel responsible for your_ actions _. He really doesn’t want to be_ GOD.

Of course. Castiel berated himself for not thinking of this. When he looked at Dean, he saw a beautiful, powerful old soul whose bravery and belief inspired him to discipleship. But he was also well-aware that Dean existed in this world as a man with an ego, replete with flaws and fears. Dean was wise, but not omniscient. And Dean—human Dean—was maddeningly dubious of his own worth.

_He really wants you here, Cas. You’re his best friend. And that’s what he wants, see? What we both want. We want a friend—not a servant._

_A servant sticks around because he’s obligated, see? Because it’s his job. A friend sticks around because he wants to._

It all came back to free will. Dean and Sam wanted him there of his own free will. As much as free will gave him a thrill, it also frightened him. It was anarchic and chaotic. Dangerous and unpredictable. Vows and obligations and directives, on the other hand, felt orderly and gave him a sense of purpose. Working with Dean and Sam felt constructive, felt right, and he was never happier than when the Winchesters asked for his help.

But tonight he had to admit that there was more to staying with Dean than having a task and feeling purposeful. More than the friendship Sam talked of. Whether Dean liked it or not, the truth was that somewhere along the line Castiel had made him Lord—free will be damned. The love of Dean’s soul had become the love of God for him. The presence of Dean’s soul had become Castiel’s heaven. He could see that now.

He could not believe that God would judge him for this. Dean had saved God, too.

Castiel allowed himself to fully materialize, and perched on the edge of the mattress at Dean’s feet. “I _want_ to serve you Dean. And I will,” he said stubbornly to the sleeping man. “I understand this frightens you, so we won’t discuss it again. It will be a secret. I will be your best friend _and_ I will be your servant.”

He was being bold… too bold? “Please,” he added, just in case. “Please… allow me this.”

Dean’s soul began to brighten. It seemed to shake off its hazy aura of gloom, and Castiel could feel its energy reaching out to him. He answered by expanding his own field and vibrating a gentle greeting.

Dean’s soul understood, even if Dean’s ego couldn’t. Castiel could feel it calling to him, drawing him in. It sensed his depletion and distress, and wanted to offer solace. Despite its own troubles, it wanted to help. Castiel knew what Dean’s soul was asking him to do.

Oh, how he wanted to do it… but this time it would be different. This time, Dean’s soul was offering to comfort and strengthen _him_.

With Dean’s soul yoked to his body, and Castiel in a vessel, it couldn’t be quite like it was the first time. Castiel hadn’t even realized how strongly they had bonded after their ascent from Hell—until it was time to return Dean to his body. Dean’s soul had by that time entwined itself so thoroughly with Castiel’s grace that it was agony to separate. Dean went to his body trailing angel grace; Castiel was left with precious tendrils of Dean’s soul entangled in his essence. These remnants themselves did not create the bond Dean and Castiel shared; but they of course enhanced it. Being with Dean made the angel feel complete.

Dean’s ego did not know it, but Dean’s soul and Castiel had re-enacted their bonding three times since leaving Hell. Each time, Castiel had sensed that Dean’s heart and soul were profoundly distraught, and he had come to the rescue while Dean’s ego was unaware. Each time, he had held and comforted Dean at his deepest level, and given of his own strength so Dean could move through his guilt, fear and sorrow.

Could he let Dean do this for him now? He had turned a deaf ear to Dean’s beckoning before—there were many times that Dean had wanted to offer him energy, and he could have used it—knowing that it would have been selfish and wrong. It was, after all, expressly forbidden for angels and humans to bond this way. His first time the bond was accidental; but the second, third and fourth times… unforgiveable.

But by whom?

If he was serving Dean now, who was he to deny Dean’s pleasure? Dean would not punish him for this. God did not care. And Heaven could eat his shorts, Castiel decided.

The angel stretched out on the bed beside Dean and promptly disappeared into his favorite dimension.


	4. Honky Tonk Woman

It was impossible to describe their bonding in human terms, Castiel thought. But if he were to try, he might say it was like his first bite of toast slathered with honey. Like sinking into a hot bath. Like experiencing his first blow job. Like eating toast with honey in a hot bath while receiving a blow job. Surprising, sweet, all-encompassing delight.

The very moment Castiel would modulate and open himself, Dean’s soul would penetrate him in a brilliant burst of light and heat, rushing to embrace his grace with a fierce tenderness. Castiel had known the awesome power of God’s love, but never—until Dean—had he known joy. He had never realized that angels were capable of this beautiful vibration, but being one with Dean’s soul showed him otherwise. When Dean’s energy was depleted by grief and soul-deep pain, Castiel cradled him close and pulsed into him gently, singing him back to strength with sound and light. As Dean’s native joy returned—and it always did—they both began to fill with its power… to resonate with it in unison… until the joy overflowed into wave upon wave of ecstasy, of love, rising in a feedback loop, tossing them helplessly, crashing over them and pulling them under together until they gladly drowned.

It was a euphoric and spiritually sensual experience, and Castiel could understand why it was forbidden; each time he partook of the ambrosia that was Dean, he never wanted to stop.

Tonight would be no different—except that _he_ was the one depleted. He had wanted to serve Dean—now, ironically, Dean was serving _him_.

Castiel vibrated graciously while Dean glowed a bright apology for being a douchebag. He purred like a cat while Dean groomed his frayed wings and then fussed around the edges of his aura, striving to cure the energetic gangrene caused by demonic proximity. Being with Crowley for so many days was eating at him in more ways than one.

He demurred gently when Dean offered, as always, to let him draw from the soul’s well of abundant energy. Castiel had done it to Bobby when things grew dire; but he had sworn he would never do the same to Dean.

When Dean finally flowed into him and caressed his grace with a teasing touch, Castiel melted. Quivering with delight, he once again threw caution to the wind, baring his angelic essence to a human soul… surrendering everything he was, completely, utterly and without reservation, to the all-consuming bliss.

***

Castiel floated in a timeless euphoria with Dean, resting and healing in his love, until he became dimly aware of a disturbance. A disturbance that seemed very far away and unthreatening at first, but began to intrude more and more insistently, until he opened reluctantly to it.

It was Sam.

“… Dean?! Dean! Hey, you ok? C’mon, Dean, wake up! Shit… Cas! Cas, where are you?! I need you… Dean!”

Castiel realized he’d occupied Dean too long, and now Sam was fretting, trying to wake his brother up—and Dean was still out of body.

A split second later, Castiel appeared standing behind Sam, looking down at Dean’s inert body with interest. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Sam jerked around, and the angel could see the fear in his eyes. “Oh, Cas, thank God. I don’t know what’s wrong with him… can you…”

Dean stirred and blinked up at them both sleepily, and Sam exhaled in a surprised huff.

“What’re you two lookin’ at? Jesus, my eyes black or somethin’?”

“What the hell, Dean—I couldn’t wake you up! Do you know what time it is?”

“Dude, I was _sleeping_ ,” Dean mumbled irritably.

“Dude, you looked _dead_. It’s freaking _noon._ I was starting to think Jack finally did you in…”

“Pfft. Not even a headache.” Dean pushed himself up to a sitting position, smacking his dry lips, and finally looked fully at Castiel—who couldn’t conceal a little smile.

To the angel’s surprise, Dean smiled back, his soul glowing through his eyes. Then his friend was climbing off the bed and into his arms. Castiel hugged him tight and thoroughly enjoyed the brief moment before Dean’s ego took over and he pulled away, his face now drawn into a confused scowl. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said petulantly. “About last night. If I was an asshole. But you…”

“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel replied quickly. “I understand. You just want a friend. I’ll be that for you.”

Dean sighed, his face softening again. “Yeah. Be that.”

He turned to Sam. “Whadda _you_ smilin’ at, Mona Lisa? Whose turn is it to get breakfast?”

“You mean _lunch_ …?”

***

_Weeks later… Lancaster, Missouri_

“No… no, no no… oh… I’m so sorry…”

Castiel’s hands cupped the cool face of the young woman where she lay in her bed, looking for all the world to be sleeping peacefully—except for the gory, gaping wound at her neck. It was a wound that should have produced copious amounts of blood… had it not been consumed before it could stain the pink polka-dotted sheets. He noted the girl’s pale porcelain skin, the curly, red hair, the scattering of freckles across her nose… _like Dean’s_ , he thought. He had spoken to her earlier that day, standing in line at the King Kone dairy with her pony-tailed sister—who now lay in the next room in a similar state.

The angel had walked past them slowly that afternoon, eyeing the crowd on the street, looking desperately for any clues to the vampirical killings that had been taking place in and around this quiet little town in northern Missouri. People were frightened, staying home after dark, loading their rifles, locking their doors for the first time. It didn’t seem to matter.

He had stopped in front of the hardware store, and the older girl—perhaps 18—had approached him, licking her ice-cream cone. Her shorts were very short. “FBI?” she inquired, a bit saucily.

“Yes,” he replied, nodding. “How did you guess?”

She giggled, eyeing him up and down in a way that made him a bit uncomfortable. A way that made him think of Claire. “Pretty obvious, I’d say. You looking into the murders?”

“Yes. I’m Agent Osborne. Perhaps you can tell me… have you seen anything unusual here lately? Anything at all?”

The younger sister sauntered up to join them, holding a hot fudge sundae in a styrofoam cup. Castiel watched as she took the cherry off the top and popped it into her mouth casually, then spoke through the mouthful. “Just you. She thinks you’re unusually cute.”

“Uggh! Brinn!” The older girl turned a rather deep shade of scarlet and attempted to jab an elbow into her sister’s side, dropping her ice cream cone in the process.

“Shit! Now look what you’ve done!” Flustered, the girl threw up her hands and stalked away; her sister grinned at Castiel and shrugged, then followed. The angel remembered watching them go, then stooping down to pick up the ruined ice cream cone and throwing it in the trash…

Six women were now dead—three more since he’d arrived in town two weeks ago. There was nothing he could do to stop this, and the vampires seemed to know it. He was certain they’d been watching him—and now they were using their victims to taunt him.

Castiel stood up slowly and backed away from the bedside at the behest of the crime scene photographer, who stepped closer and began snapping away. He could hear the girls’ mother sobbing in the living room. The father had disappeared years ago; he would not know his daughters were dead.

Castiel thought of Jimmy and Claire and Amelia. He thought of the trail of bodies continuing to drop in Lucifer’s wake. He thought of Kelly Kline, carrying Lucifer’s child. He thought of Sam and of Dean, and it was all too much. He could not fix this. He could not fix anything. Why did he think he could do this without the Winchesters?

He turned and stalked out of the house, ignoring the local police officers bustling around the crime scene and brushing past a reporter on the sidewalk, who called out to him. He didn’t answer. He knew he would not return. He couldn’t face the girls’ mother again, knowing his presence had led to their deaths. He couldn’t continue lying to local law enforcement, knowing that they could never really know the truth. He couldn’t pretend—for one more minute—to be something he wasn’t.

Castiel climbed into his car, started it and drove away, not caring in which direction he was headed. It didn’t matter. Dean had asked him to stay with the President’s concubine, to take her somewhere safe, but he’d botched that job in less than an hour. Now Kelly Kline was hiding somewhere out there, Lucifer’s baby growing day by day in her womb. Now Sam and Dean were imprisoned somewhere out there, languishing alone in the dark. Now three more women were dead in Lancaster, and somewhere out there lay a nest of very smug vampires.

He had taken this case on because no one else had—because Dean and Sam would have—and because he burned to do something good and right with his energy. But the fact was, he was impotent.

He turned on the radio to distract himself, but a few moments later, over an ad for Biggerson’s new Lobster-Tuna Reuben Sandwich, he heard the prayers again.

_Cas… Cas you got your ears on? Ah buddy… I wish you were listening…_

Castiel brought the car to a screeching halt on the side of the two-lane highway. It was starting to rain—big fat drops plopping in ones and twos on the windshield. He let his head fall back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “I’m listening, Dean,” he murmured.

_I don’t care if you’re listening or not. It helps to talk. It’s so fuckin’ quiet in here… goddamn, I miss your dumb ass. I miss you, Cas._

“I miss you too, Dean.”

 _And_ _Sam. I wish I knew… God, I just… Even if you can’t break me out, can’t you just come to me? Please? I mean I know you’re trying…_

“I am trying, Dean. I am…”

These prayers were killing him. They’d distracted him in the restaurant long enough for Kelly to escape. They kept him from thinking clearly about finding her. The prayers interrupted his questioning and surveillance during the hunt, broke his train of thought and drained his energy.

_Fuck… I’m a fuckin’ mess. I just need… I just need to know Sam’s ok. And you… Are you ok? You got me worried, man…_

“I am,” he whispered. “I’m ok. I’m…”

He hated Dean’s prayers as much as he loved them.

_…‘cause this isn’t like you. I mean, you broke me out of HELL, for Chrissake, and you always come when I call, and when you don’t it’s ‘cause something’s wrong, or you’re up to some shit…_

“Dean, I’m trying… I’m _trying…”_

_Goddamn it, Cas, I need you! Where are you? I’m losing my fucking mind in here!_

“I’m TRYING, DEAN!”

_Please, Cas, please be ok. Please just talk to me. Just answer me somehow. PLEASE…_

“STOP!” Castiel cried, his heart breaking. “Stop, Dean, I CAN’T!” He flung the car door open and lurched out into the road, unable to feel the rain pouring down and soaking his hair, his coat, right through his suit to his t-shirt. He stood there a moment, staring at approaching headlights, and briefly considered not moving. Would the car actually kill him? Or would he cause yet another death?

A bolt of nearby lightning illuminated the darkening sky, followed closely by a peal of thunder.

Dean was begging, _begging,_ frightened and alone, and Castiel was powerless to help and even Mary had laid the blame at his feet. Why were his friends lost to him? Why was his grace failing?

He needed more power, and he needed it now, and a wild idea took hold of him.

Lightning struck again, twice, less than a half-mile away, the storm blowing in rapidly from the west. He slammed the car door and strode around the vehicle, down into the grassy ditch, and up into a field of soybeans being pummeled by the sheeting rain. Another bolt of lightning sizzled down into the far hedgerow, striking an oak tree and blowing up a dead snag beside it, the explosive thunderclap sending a frisson of excitement through his grace. He continued into the field, feeling the earth beneath him growing charged. His vessel’s dripping skin began to prickle, the ring on his left hand to vibrate. Still he walked, his shoes squelching in the mud between the planted rows. The moment he sensed the leader forming in the clouds above him, he stopped, threw his arms into the air and bellowed to the heavens.

 “OL VINU NAPEA DE MAELPEREJI!”

And the beautiful streamer rose through him, possessed him, renewed him—nearly a billion volts of electricity blasting through his being at 200 million miles per hour.

The burst of energy felt like swallowing all the souls of Purgatory again—all the intoxicating power with none of the dark _other-ness_ —and Castiel thrilled to feel all of his electrons dancing with strength! His wings unfurled, bright and powerful, and his energy vibrated high and holy again, like it hadn’t in years. He shouted, and his voice rivaled the thunder. Now he could fly until he found Dean and Sam! He felt so marvelously unencumbered, so unfettered and free…

…because he was.

He suddenly realized, with some surprise, that he’d blown himself free of his vessel. He was floating above the treetops, but his human body lay in the mud, several feet from where he’d stood, curled up and dying. It was badly burned, the heart fibrillating wildly. The trench coat smoldered despite the rain. One shoe had come off.

He thought perhaps he should feel some remorse… but human feelings seemed far away now. He had liked that vessel. But it was holding him back… wasn’t it? Now he could fly to Dean and free him!

But then what?

Would it be like it was in the beginning, before Jimmy said yes? He could not communicate with Dean without overwhelming him. Dean wouldn’t like that. It would be very frustrating for them both—and it would be next to impossible to find another long-term vessel quite so suitable. And empty.

Castiel hovered, indecisive. What would Dean do? Would the happiness of being free outweigh the sadness of losing each other’s earthly companionship?

He thought of Dean in the bunker, smiling and touching him with affection. “I’ve kinda gotten used to this face,” Dean had said to Mary…

A few moments later, Castiel struggled to his feet in the wet soybean field. The rain had begun to slacken, the storm moving off to the east. He located his lost shoe and slid it on as a human would—mud and all. Slightly disoriented, he took his bearings, stood up straight and began slogging his way back to the car.

***

Mary sat at the bar, fingering her highball glass, keeping a surreptitious eye on the bustle around her. She saw the angel come in, wander through someone’s game of darts, and finally spot her. She gave him a little smile, and he approached, sliding onto the stool next to her. His face was blank—his manner aloof. She couldn’t blame him, after what she’d said to him back at the bunker…

*“Thanks for meeting me,” she offered gently. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I was angry… and Sam and Dean—that’s not your fault.”

Castiel’s face softened, his eyes growing melancholy. “No, you were right. I should never have left them, I…” his voice trailed off, and he didn’t finish his thought. “Have you heard anything?”

She shook her head. “All my law enforcement contacts are retired or… dead. I’m trying. You?”

The angel shook his head.

“I keep telling myself they’re fine,” she continued, “they’ve only been gone…”

“Six weeks, two days and ten hours,” Castiel finished sadly.

She felt the need to reassure them both. “We’ll find them, Castiel. We will. Until then, we just… we’re doing our best.”

“Are we?” he asked with a wan smile. “Did you hear about the murders in Lancaster, Missouri?”

“No…”

“The women with their throats ripped out and their blood drained…?”

Mary sighed. “Vampire.” She listened then as Castiel related the story of how he had learned of the murders, thought it was the sort of thing Sam and Dean would have tackled, and tried to help. How he tried and failed—without them—to find the monsters.

Clearly angels weren’t created to hunt vampires… but she couldn’t help but be touched by his desire to honor his friends’ work. And a little irritated by his resignation.

“Three more women died before I left town,” he finished dolefully. “Before I _ran away_.”

A lightbulb went off. “So we go back—you and me,” she suggested, sitting up straighter.

He nodded at first, then surprised her by shaking his head. “No… No, I’d only get in your way.”**

Mary sighed. She’d come into the bar feeling sorry for mistreating the angel, and now she felt even sorrier. She had a sudden urge to tell him to pull his big boy pants on. She didn’t have room in her heart to feel any worse for anybody else tonight—not with Sam and Dean still missing. Or maybe she couldn’t come to Castiel’s pity party because she was too busy with her own. The whiskey wasn’t helping.

“Listen,” she said, looking up into Castiel’s sad eyes again. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

He squinted at her, tilting his head.

“I mean with me.”

***

He waited outside the Pine Shore Motel in his own car until she’d rented a room, then he followed her inside silently, closing the door behind them. She set her bag down on the far bed, took her coat off and tossed it on the chair, and kicked off her shoes. Digging into her bag, she pulled out Dean’s laptop, then a pair of black sweatpants and a t-shirt. A soft, gray one that had belonged to Dean.

Castiel stood in the middle of the floor, watching her. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said to Cas. “I’m going to change, then we can get down to work and talk about a plan.”

Mary shut herself in the bathroom and changed her clothes, then washed her face with one of those lousy little bars of harsh motel soap. She patted her skin dry and set the towel down, then looked into the mirror, running damp fingers through her tangled curls. She felt as haggard as she looked. She had to admit, the last thing she really wanted to do right now was to figure out that damn laptop, or to plan and scheme and strategize—about hunting vampires or about finding her sons. It was all too exhausting, and it was almost midnight.

She thought about the fallen angel in the motel room with her; she could hear him moving around. Of course he was sad and feeling sorry for himself—he was lonely. He’d spent six weeks, two days and ten hours without a word from his closest companions—the people he rebelled against heaven for and felt responsible for protecting… and losing. Six weeks, two days and ten hours feeling lonely. And guilty. And increasingly frightened for the people he loved, but helpless to rescue them. She could relate.

Mary stepped into the room and looked at Castiel sitting at the table by the window in his white shirt and dress pants, Dean’s laptop open and booting up in front of him.

“Castiel,” she said, hoping it wasn’t just the whiskey talking. She’d never felt more sober. “Do you want to have sex?”

Castiel looked stunned for a moment, then his face pulled into a frown; he pushed his chair back slowly and stood up. “Why?” he asked, sounding mystified.

She wrung her hands a bit. “Because… we’re both lonely and upset, and I… if I have to deal with that computer right now I’m going to scream and I’m tired but I can’t sleep and I just don’t want to _think_ for a little while. I just want to feel. I just want… I just need someone to hold me.”

 _Shit, here come the tears._ Her eyes began to sting and she bit her lip and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to keep from crying.

Castiel walked up to where she stood in front of the bed and put a hand on her shoulder, tilting his head to study her. “Are you sure, Mary?”

“Yes… no…” she took a deep breath, in and out. Then she remembered—he couldn’t feel anything. Sex would be no fun for him—it might not even work. _He_ might not even work.

The angel stepped closer and gently pulled her into his arms, wrapping her up in a hug. It felt wonderful, and she put her arms around him, too, and pressed her nose into his neck. He was very warm and solid and smelled like a man… and something else. Something she couldn’t quite place.

“This is nice,” she sighed in his arms. They stood like that for a minute or two, silently, then he pulled away a little and looked at her again.

“Shall I take my clothes off?” he asked.

She smiled at his earnestness. “No… never mind. I forgot that you don’t… you know… I don’t want to use you, Castiel.”

“I am here to be of use,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “It’s ok.”

He still held her, though, and neither of them stepped away. She couldn’t bring herself to. She pressed her forehead to his, sliding a hand to the back of his neck. She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry this is awkward,” she whispered.

“For a human, perhaps,” he murmured back, and then he kissed her. His lips felt so soft, his mouth opening against hers, warm and wet… and something inside her melted. She kissed him back—hard—one hand sliding into his hair and the other on his back, holding him tight. He took her cue, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sliding his hands to her waist, and she kissed him with a desperate longing.

God, she needed this.

Keeping her mouth on his, she began to unbutton his shirt, feeling him reach around behind her back to undo his cuffs. He let her push it off his shoulders and he shrugged out of the sleeves, letting it fall behind him. She broke the kiss, then, and stepped back just enough to pull Dean’s t-shirt off over her head. Castiel’s gaze seemed wistful as she tossed it onto the bed, but he said nothing. She was braless. She took his hand and pressed it to her left breast, squeezing his fingers gently.

She needed this, and she needed _not_ to think of John while she did it.

With grim determination, then, she reached for his belt, unbuckling it and unfastening his trousers. Before pushing them down, though, she paused. “Castiel,” she said, and he met her eyes. “Are you sure this is alright with you?”

He smiled gently. “This is the least I can do, Mary,” he said, not without a touch of humor. “I may suck at hunting vampires, but I think I _can_ maintain an erection for as long as you need me to.”

“As long as I need you to, huh?” she grinned. “You _are_ God’s gift to hunters.”

***

Somewhere just beyond her fourth orgasm, she shuddered and collapsed on his chest, sweaty and satiated and boneless.

“Good God… now _that_ one was just greedy…” she panted.

He ran his hands up and down her bare back, soothing, raising goosebumps. She kissed his neck, the skin beneath his ear. Was he actually a little dewy?

His long fingers cupped and squeezed her ass gently. “Will you be wanting more?” he murmured into her hair. “If so, I should change this condom.”

Mary pushed herself upright, still straddling him, and looked down at the angel’s naked body in the dim reddish glow of a neon sign through the cheap curtains. His hands rested on her thighs, and she grasped his left hand in her right one, lacing their fingers together. His cock still felt ramrod stiff inside her. As hard as when she’d first sucked him to attention an hour ago, just to see if she could.

She snorted a little, bent her head and kissed his knuckles. “Mmm… the spirit is willing, sweetie, but the flesh has had enough. Thank you, Castiel.”

“Thank _you,_ Mary.”

She reached down and held his condom in place while she carefully slid off, then rolled over to sit down beside him, a little saddle-sore. “For what exactly—the good conversation?”

“I appreciated your company,” he said sincerely. “And apparently my vessel did, too.”

Looking down to see him working the condom off, she realized that he’d ejaculated into it.

“Oh…” she said curiously. “When did that happen?”

“About seven minutes ago,” he replied. “A little surprising, but I’ve always suspected this penis has a mind of its own. I managed not to break stride.” He climbed off the bed and she watched him walk over to the trash can and drop the mess in, then come back.

“Two questions,” she said, sliding under the covers and holding the corner of the sheet up for him to join her. He slid in and she cozied up beside his bare body, reaching out to tweak the dark nub of his nipple. “Did you _really_ not feel any of that?”

He sighed, resting a hand on her hip. “I was enjoying the memory of what it felt like. But no, being an angel, I couldn’t feel it.”

“So if that’s true, then number two, why does an angel carry condoms around in his pockets?”

He was quiet for a minute before replying. “Dean gave them to me. Along with a rather intensive and passionate lecture.”

Mary laid her hand flat on his chest, feeling his borrowed heart beating against her palm. “Because of your last experience, when you were human?”

“Yes… and because Dean impregnated an Amazon a few years ago. That didn’t end very well.”

“Oh… my.”

“And I suppose he wanted me to avoid situations like the one we’re in now… with Lucifer and Kelly Kline, I mean.”

“I guess Kelly Kline appreciated Lucifer’s angelic stamina, too,” Mary mused. She took his hand off her hip and moved it to his chest, wrapping her fingers around it.

“Sadly, Lucifer didn’t have Dean to give him condoms,” Castiel murmured lowly, the deep bass of his voice rumbling through her.

She chuckled against his shoulder. “There’s a sentence I never imagined hearing.”

Castiel sighed deeply. “Mary,” he said softly, seriously, “I’m afraid Dean won’t like what we just did.”

Mary tightened her grip on his fingers, feeling a pang in her chest. The angel was right, of course. Yes, her sons were missing, and yes, she just had sex with their best friend. An _angel_. But hell… desperate times…

“Dean doesn’t need to know,” Mary replied gently. “And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. _When we find them again,_ Castiel, we won’t tell them. We’ll have more important things to talk about.”

They both lay silent for a time, and Mary began to nod off, warm and comfortable, when she heard Castiel’s voice again.

“He’s never stopped talking to me, Mary.”

Castiel turned onto his side and looked into her eyes, searching, and she wished it wasn’t too dark to see their deep, cerulean blue. It certainly wasn’t too dark to see his pain. “He’s talking to me _right now,”_ Castiel whispered. “He’s praying to me again, Mary… and I can’t help him. It’s so hard to bear…”

The angel closed his eyes, and a tear suddenly glistened as it slipped over the bridge of his nose. “Can you imagine what it’s like… to hear someone praying and begging for your help, but to be powerless to go to them?”

Mary squeezed his hand, sighed and thought of the small boys she’d left behind in Heaven—and long ago on Earth. “Yes,” she said, “yes, I can.”

 

_Author's Note: OK, so this is indeed a Castiel/Dean story, and yes, they will get into each other's pants, but don't hate Mary 'cause she gets there first. Let those who would not have done Cas cast the first stone. Dialog between the * and ** belongs to the show writers; I've recreated it here as part of the story._

_So... I'm intrigued (spoiler) by what Mary's up to in tonight's episode, not telling Sam & Dean about her mission, even after almost getting Cas killed. And his dying profession of love--oh my heart. Anyhoo - if you're still with me, tell me what you like! Thanks for reading..._


	5. Satisfaction

“I know why you did what you did, Cas. So does Dean. I know he’s being kind of a dick right now, but… give us some time, ok? This whole thing… it was hard, you know?”

Sam stopped walking; they’d reached the top of the low ridge above the bunker. The light of a quarter-moon and the starry firmament filtered through the trees; autumn leaves fluttered down around them lazily, one at a time, it seemed. Sam sighed, leaned his back against an oak and looked down at the twinkling lights of Lebanon, Kansas.

“You don’t want to be underground right now, do you?” Castiel observed.

Sam gave him a wry grin. “I feel like I could just hang out here all night. God… this is like heaven.” He breathed deeply, smelling the leaf-mould and damp earth and the tang of wood-smoke on the air from a nearby chimney. “I just want to go for a run right now.”

Dean had remarked that being locked up in solitary for six weeks and change was worse than Hell—and in some respects, Sam agreed. At least Hell was challenging. But six weeks alone in a cell with nothing but himself… there were only so many sit-ups to do, so many conversations with the wall, so many prayers and poems and mantras and incantations to recite to oneself. He’d written an entire dissertation on the metaphysics of angel blades and three chapters of _American Serial Killers_ in his head in the first week alone. There were only so many ways to keep sane and way too much time to worry, when you spent 22 hours a day alone in the dark like a cave salamander.

In the last couple weeks of captivity he’d started to hallucinate, and it made him fear for his sanity. He’d begun to expect any minute to hear Lucifer’s voice in his head again, and the expectation was almost as bad as reality.

He figured Dean had it even worse, judging from the offer he’d made the reaper. Dean never was great at entertaining himself without alcohol and porn—and one could only jerk off so many times a day.

 “I just don’t understand,” Cas growled, still ruminating. “Did he _want_ Mary to die?”

“Of course not,” Sam answered. “I’m pretty sure he thought _he_ was going with Billie.”

“But Billie had immobilized him. The reaper was prepared to take Mary.”

“Yeah, I know that. He knows that. But in Dean’s mind, he had a plan and he was going to go through with it. You and mom were a couple of monkey wrenches.”

Cas’ brow knit together. “Monkey… oh…” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked up at Sam, meeting his gaze. “So you were prepared to let him sacrifice himself, Sam?”

“Well, no, neither one of us had really prepared. There kinda wasn’t time, what with dying and escaping and running and fighting for our lives.”

“I was not prepared either,” Castiel declared. “I was not prepared to see _any_ of you die. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t time.”

Sam gave him a wan, sideways smile in the dark. “So you’ve said, buddy.”

***

“There you are,” said Mary, from her perch at the kitchen table. She smiled up at the angel, dunking her teabag a couple more times before pulling it out of the cup and laying it on the saucer.

“Are we out of coffee?” Castiel asked, heading for the coffeemaker.

“No—just thought I’d try some Sleepytime before bed tonight. It’s a pretty good sleep aid… but not as good as y…”

She aborted her sentence just as Dean padded up to the door and stepped inside. Like Sam, he’d slept most of the day, and his hair was sticking out in odd directions. He stopped short and looked from Mary to Castiel and back again. “Talkin’ about me?”

“No,” they both said in unison.

“Huh…” he narrowed his eyes and started toward the refrigerator, but had to halt when he reached Castiel. The angel met and matched his stony gaze, unmoving. “You just gonna stand there in my way?” Dean grumped.

When Castiel didn’t move, the hunter scowled. _“Seriously?”_ He turned and stomped the other way ‘round the table and finally reached the refrigerator, yanking it open with a vengeance and dragging the remains of a six-pack out—then stalking back out the door without another word.

Castiel’s shoulders sagged, and forgetting about the coffeemaker, he shuffled over to sit down across from Mary at the table.

“Do _you_ think I did wrong, too?” he asked softly.

She sighed, gazing sympathetically at him over the coffee mug cradled in her hands. “You spared my boys watching their mom die—again. I was ready to go back to heaven, but… no, Castiel, I don’t think you did wrong. Right or wrong, though, won’t necessarily matter when it’s time to pay the piper. We all know a deal is a deal…”

The broken deal with the reaper didn’t trouble Castiel nearly as much as Dean’s anger. He could not fathom why Dean was so upset with him for saving the Winchesters from Billie and their terrible deal. He knew Dean liked to be in control—but was Dean so thick-headed that he couldn’t see when he was _not_ in charge? When things were about to go tragically wrong?

“Dean can be very frustrating,” Castiel observed unhappily.

“I’m starting to see that,” Mary agreed. “He does have my father’s wretched bullheadedness.”

“I wish he could just be happy now. He deserves to be happy… to rest. I fear that I…” he had let his hand drop onto the tabletop, and Mary reached out and clasped it.

“Stop,” she said. “Don’t blame yourself. Dean will come around. You did the right thing.”

Castiel exhaled, looking once again into her eyes. Her steady gaze was reassuring; she seemed so confident. Perhaps she was right. He realized how tense his vessel had become, and how fraught his energy, and he willed himself to relax. She stroked her thumb gently across the back of his hand, and smiled at him—and he felt grateful again for her kindness.

“Mary,” he said, curious now, “Why were you so ready to return to heaven? Are you still unhappy here?”

She set her cup down. “No. I think I’m finding my way; I’ve got things to look forward to. But I’m still aware that I don’t really belong. It’s a little strange being younger than your own son. Younger or not, though, it’s my job to die first—and if necessary, I’m going to do it.”

The angel nodded, understanding, and Mary gave his hand one last squeeze before releasing it. He watched her sit back and close her eyes, rubbing at her temples with her fingertips.

“Are you alright?”

“Uh-huh. Just a little headache,” she said. “I get so tired, but it’s hard to sleep.”

“Do you want to have sex again?” he suggested helpfully.

She opened one eye, then broke into a sideways grin. Her voice was playful, but her words sounded a little ominous to him. “Castiel—have I created a monster?”

***

_A few days later…_

Dean stood in the doorway to his bedroom, gazing at the figure lying on his bed. Condensation dripped from the cold beer in his hand, ran through his fingers and plopped onto his sock; not much he hated worse than a wet sock. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He’d seen Castiel in repose many times before, but it never failed to unnerve him; angels weren’t supposed to sleep. Every time Cas did, it just reminded him of everything that was wrong in the world. Wrong and his fault.

Castiel had removed his coat and jacket and laid himself out on the bed like a corpse, straight as an arrow, hands resting at his sides. He’d thoughtfully removed his shoes, too; his black-stockinged toes pointed at the ceiling. His face was serene, and the bruises and cuts inflicted by Isham—the bloody lip and nose that Sam had carefully cleaned in the Impala—were well on their way to healing, even if evidence still remained. Dean knew that Cas was letting his vessel rest, the better to heal it with his limited energy. He knew it, but still…

He and Sam had gotten pretty well shitfaced after returning from their failed attempt to save Cas’ angel friends—who had turned out to be pretty major asshats. Castiel had seemed depressed on the way home. Hell—who wouldn’t be? An old buddy proved himself to be an evil SOB and Cas had to kill him. But not before Cas had his ass handed to him—again—and found out he’d been an unwitting accomplice to a child’s murder. Then to watch Cas kneel before Lily Sunder and offer his own throat… Dean knew the angel needed absolution, but he’d nearly choked on his own heart trying to keep still and not kill the half-human bitch.

They’d tried to cheer Cas up back at the bunker with a little Winchester-style pep talk. Dean had even sort of apologized to him for being a dick about Billie—kind of. The Twilight Zone marathon was on, and there was plenty of beer and pie, but Cas just sat in the chair in the corner of Sam’s room, quiet and pale, and finally Dean told him to go lie down.

Goaded by a pang in his gut, Dean stepped silently into the room and set his beer down on the dresser, then slipped over to the bedside and bent low to see the angel’s chest rise and fall, to hear the breath in his nostrils. Sighing then, he sat down gingerly on the empty side of the bed.

The alchemy of this evening’s battle with Isham had transformed his anger at Castiel into its truer form—existential terror. Not for himself, of course—he’d long ago quit fearing the reaper—but for those he loved. Of course he had planned to give himself to Billie; there was no question about that. Easy as pie… but selfish, too. No way was he going to watch his little brother die again—he’d rather go back to Hell. But he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Mary might play the martyr—or that his fool guardian angel might guard him too well. Nor had it occurred to him to break his own deal. He’d had enough goddamn “cosmic consequences” for one lifetime, thanks.

Oh well—the best laid plans of mice and men, and all that shit. They would deal. Could it really be worse than the Apocalypse, or Leviathan, or the Darkness? They’d survived all that. But would they _all_ survive _this_?

He’d nearly lost his angel tonight… _again._ Dean stared at Castiel’s peaceful face and thought about how many times in the just the past few months Castiel had been outwitted, outgunned and overpowered. His batteries were always half-charged, yet he kept flinging himself into fights with angels, demons, witches and monsters possessing twice his mojo. His bravery knew no bounds, but he had the discernment of a Chihuahua facing down a pack of pit bulls.

Dean closed his eyes and pictured Castiel’s face as he lay on the floor of the church, half-conscious, head turned to gaze backwards at him. Dean’s hand had hovered over the bloody sigil on the wall as Isham taunted him, inviting him to blast them both away… reminding him that Isham would survive, but Castiel, in his weakened condition, might not. The look in Castiel’s eyes had not begged Dean for his life, however; that look had simply said _goodbye._

Once upon a time, Dean had found Castiel terrifying—but now he was terrified _for_ him, he realized. Castiel seemed destined—or perhaps determined—to die, and sooner rather than later.

Dean rolled onto the bedspread next to Cas, scrubbing at his face with both hands, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyelids. How could he possibly bear Castiel’s loss? How had he borne it before? This loyal, trusting, amazing celestial being had pulled him from Hell, fought his own kind, given his life and fallen from grace… all for _Dean’s_ friendship. How was it possible? What did he ever do to deserve it? And what if Dean wasn’t there the next time Cas needed help? Worse, what if Cas died for _him_?

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel croaked.

Dean inhaled sharply, clearing his aching throat. “Yeah, buddy?” he replied hoarsely.

“You asked me to lie down and rest, but now you’re bludgeoning me with your pity and self-loathing,” Castiel complained, without opening his eyes.

“Thought you weren’t in the business of reading my mind.”

“Your mind is shouting at me. It’s hard to ignore.”

Dean sighed. “Sorry, man. You need to rest. I’ll go.” He started to get up, but Castiel shot a hand out and grabbed his bicep, gently tugging him back down.

“No, stay. Talk to me, Dean. I’ve missed you.”

Castiel’s voice was calm as ever, but his big, blue eyes betrayed a universe of emotion when Dean laid his head back down on the pillow beside him. It was a bit too much. Dean pulled away gently, but traveled only as far as the dresser, fetching his beer, then climbed back onto the bed and propped himself up against the headboard. He took a couple swigs as Castiel slowly sat up beside him, mirroring his pose.

“You think I have a ‘death wish,’” Castiel said softly. “You think I’m being foolish and careless.”

“ _Well_ …”

“You must understand,” Castiel said sternly, “I’m an angel, and I am simply doing what I was created to do. I’m serving and protecting. If I die in the performance of my duty, then so be it. I can think of no more honorable death than protecting you. Or my brothers and sisters.”

Dean scowled, and took another angry gulp to calm himself. “Dude,” he said evenly, “You’re like a million years old. I don’t _want_ you to die for me. _Or_ your lousy, ungrateful siblings.”

He started picking at the _Margiekugels_ label, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I don’t think you get why you fucked up with Billie. See, worst case scenario, Billie was going to take me to _heaven._ It was going to be fine, and if y’all played your cards right, we’d all be a big happy family again someday. But now… Jesus, let’s set aside the cosmic vendetta coming our way for a minute... or let’s just say it comes _your_ way. Cas, what happens when _you_ die?”

Dean turned to glower at him and Castiel met his gaze. “We’ve discussed this, Dean. Angels have no afterlife. We simply cease to exist as angels any longer. Our energy scatters and returns to the matrix.”

“Exactly, man! So I get to go to heaven, but you get to explode! I die, and you come visit me upstairs. But _you_ die and you’re fuckin’ dust in the wind! How is that fair!?”

“Fairness is irrelevant, Dean. God did not create us out of the same material, or to the same purposes. I am a wavelength of light—a spark of God’s energy. But you—your soul is a piece of God himself. Many angels still cannot understand why God chose to house these precious pearls inside such oysters,” and here Castiel pinched Dean’s elbow, “but I’ve grown to understand. You are how God learns and grows. You have even caused _me_ to learn and grow. You are an infinitely valuable incarnation, and you’re a Winchester, and the world _needs_ you.”

 _“Fuck that.”_ Dean’s voice broke on the curse word, and he suddenly realized he’d begun to shake with emotion. His eyes and throat burned. Meltdown imminent in 3… 2…  “I need _you._ You’re my best friend and you’re always here for us. You pulled me out of _Hell_. You saved the goddamn world with us. Talkin’ to you kept me alive for the last six weeks. You’re just as fuckin’ valuable… you’re…” …1… Dean choked on a sob, doubling over, pressing the back of his fist to his mouth. Goddamn alcohol—he fuckin’ hated weepy drunks.

He was acutely aware of Castiel’s quiet presence beside him for the few minutes it took him to quit gasping and snuffling and wiping at tears and snot. Castiel finally pressed a Kleenex into his hand, and Dean blew his nose gratefully.

“I am afraid of losing you, Dean, and you are afraid of losing me,” Castiel said very gently. “But we shouldn’t be. We are like the Fox and the Little Prince,” he declared, and it took Dean just a moment to catch up—to realize Cas was using Metatron’s gift again. Castiel reached up to wipe another stray tear from Dean’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “We were nothing to each other… but then I tamed you. Or perhaps you tamed me. Like the Prince tamed the Fox. When it finally came time for them to part, they were both grieved, and the Little Prince thought it might have been better had he never tamed the Fox.”

“He was probably right,” Dean grouched, and frowned at the last inch of beer in his bottle. Warm swill. He reached to set it down on the shelf behind the bed, then turned and forced himself to look at Castiel.

“But then the Fox reminded the Prince that he would always have his memories.” Castiel’s gaze was almost unbearably tender. “No matter what happens, I know you will always remember me, Dean. And your heart will go on.”

No, it actually _was_ unbearable. Dean sighed, dropping his aching forehead to grind it into the heel of his hand. “Dude, how many times have you watched _Titanic_ now?”

“Three.”

“Three is enough. Don’t _ever_ compare me to Rose.”

Dean felt Cas’ fingers on his temple, then a soothing warmth flowing through his skull. He closed his eyes, and his headache seemed to dissolve and float away on the gentle, ebbing wave. Castiel was very close to him now; Dean could smell his clean, ozone scent and feel his heat.

“The Fox left the Little Prince with a secret,” the angel murmured near his right ear. “The Fox told him, ‘It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.’”

Dean sighed. “Thanks, man,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes again, shifting away a bit, reaching out and finding Castiel’s leg and patting it awkwardly.

“You’re welcome, Dean. Will you lie down and sleep now?”

“Nah… I’m tired but I don’t think I can sleep. I’m all messed up. You rest.”

Castiel gave him one of those studying looks. “Do you want to have sex?” he asked.

Dean snorted. “Well, the answer to that is generally ‘hell, yeah.’ It’s been way too long, and I ‘bout rubbed it raw in Camp Sunshine, just trying to keep…” Then suddenly it occurred to him that the question might not have been rhetorical. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. He lifted a hand and suspended it in the air. “Uh…”

Silence roared in Dean’s ears for a moment, and Cas sat perfectly still, waiting… for what? What did Cas mean? What was he supposed to say? Did his angel just offer to do the dirty with him?

His mind leaned hard on the switch and managed to steer that train right onto the emergency track and out of the path of danger, with no time to spare.

“…So here’s what we’re going to do, Cas. We’re going to find some hot waitresses and we’re going to get you laid, and we’re going to get me laid, and we’re going to get you some more mojo—but not necessarily in that order. Hell if things aren’t approaching DEFCON 1 around here again, and we’ve gotta do something about it. I mean, you just got your ass kicked by Isham, and you didn’t have enough energy to come find me in prison, and it took you forever to recover from that stupid curse last year, and you _still_ aren’t right after having Lucifer up your ass, and do you really think El Diablo is just gonna let you grab Kelly and kill his baby? If you’re going to take him on again, it ain’t gonna be like Club Meteor. There’s more at stake this time. Oh, and lest we forget—Cosmic Fuckin’ Consequences coming our way when we least expect it. We gotta be prepared for any and every-thing, dude.”

Cas squinted at him. “How will getting laid by waitresses help?”

“Getting laid always helps. But for a longer term fix, we need to get you more juice. So you tell me—what do we gotta do to make that happen? You name it, Sam and I will do it. We can look in the lore, we can phone up Crowley or his mama; maybe we can even pester Chuck on his vacation. I don’t care if you gotta crash heaven or drain another angel, or suck it outta my soul. Something’s gotta be done to angel you up again. ”

Cas stared at him, blinking, for a moment. “You’re right, Dean,” he finally replied. “Something’s got to be done.”


	6. Let's Spend the Night Together

Mile after mile, the three Winchesters and the angel rode along in silence. At one point Sam turned the radio on, but Dean immediately turned it down so low as to be practically inaudible to humans. Dean seemed on the verge of speaking several times, but each time, the words seemed to get trapped in the tar pit of his emotions before they could leave his mouth. So Dean scowled and glanced at Castiel in the rear-view mirror, rubbed at his stubbly face, fidgeted in his seat, drove a little faster.

Castiel felt the full weight of the silence, knowing it was because of him—because he’d almost died in that barn, _again,_ and they’d all watched it happen. Because it was _Crowley_ who had saved him, by breaking the terrible lance and destroying its magic, with no time to spare. Because Dean had been right, and he’d had no business going up against the yellow-eyed demon Ramiel with the Lance of Michael in his half-charged state. The pain and rapid putrefaction of the lance wound had been surprisingly dreadful, but the worst part was seeing Mary’s concern, and Sam’s sympathy, and Dean’s frightened denial. Having caused them such distress filled him with remorse.

He had told them he loved them. He knew Dean didn’t speak of love, and he normally avoided such language with the brothers; perhaps Mary’s presence and attempts at soothing him brought it out, he thought. Or the fact that he was certain he was about to expire. He had loved Dean and Sam for a long time, with the powerful and unconditional love of God. But he’d begun to understand lately that he also loved them in human ways. He loved them like brothers and friends, which felt equally unconditional and warm. And he loved Dean in another way—a way that felt hot and tumultuous sometimes, frustrating other times, and often filled him with a deep, sweet yearning that he didn’t understand. Or perhaps he did, he thought—perhaps it was this yearning that led humans to sexual intimacy, the way his grace was drawn to make One with Dean’s soul.

Sitting behind Dean, staring at the back of his head, Castiel wanted so badly to connect—but he knew that in Dean’s present state it would be well-nigh impossible. When Crowley broke the lance, Castiel had been restored to his condition pre-stabbing. No more gangrenous energy coursing through him, affecting his angelic and physical beings; he would live. But a human sort of emotional trauma lingered, and he found himself longing for some comfort. He felt weary and vulnerable and sad.

They finally pulled over at an all-night Gas n’ Sip, and Dean turned off the rumbling engine. Without a word, Sam opened the door and unfolded from the passenger seat, got out and shoved the gas pump into the tank. Mary slid out as well, and then the two headed for the store, across the dark parking lot. Dean sighed loudly, as if all the air was leaving him. When Castiel looked up, his eyes met Dean’s in the mirror.

“I’m very sorry, Dean,” Castiel said quietly.

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Dean grabbed at the back of his own neck, rubbing at the tight muscles. “Dude, I can’t anymore. I just fuckin’ _can’t_.”

“I wanted to help. We didn’t know who he was—that he had the lance.”

“You always wanna help, and we _never_ know… man, I can’t…”

“Dean, we all take chances—you, and Sam, and…”

“No!” Dean hollered suddenly, and twisted around in the seat to face Castiel, to give him the full force of his fury. “That demon, he was _gunning for you._ You’re an angel, and you’re a target, and you’re running at a quarter tank, and it’s dangerous for all of us! Especially you, and I told you I can’t watch you go down again!”

“Dean...”

“Dude, you are _benched,”_ Dean growled at him, pointing a finger over the seat at his face. _“_ No more hunting, no more of this _helping,_ until you find a way to juice up! No more going out looking for Kelly Kline. No more!”

“But you can’t…”

Dean turned back around, conversation over. “Until you fix this, you do what you can in the bunker. Or you leave us and don’t come back. It’s that simple. I can’t watch this happen again. I _can’t._ ”

_“Dean…”_

“NO, Cas.” Dean jerked at the door handle, launched himself out and slammed the door behind him with all his might.

***

_Two days later… Lebanon, Kansas_

“I believe I have an answer to our dilemma, Dean. Jacob’s Ladder.”

Dean startled, nearly choking on a mouthful of Italian sub. He’d barely spoken to Castiel in about 18 hours—had last seen him pacing the library, back and forth between two tables piled with books—and now he seemed to have materialized out of nowhere and in the middle of a conversation, in true Castiel fashion. Dean set his sandwich down on the plate and hurriedly finished chewing. “Jacob’s Ladder?” he echoed, spewing a few last crumbs.

“Yes. You are no doubt familiar with the Bible story.”

“Yeah… uh…” Dean racked his brain for a moment, “Jacob falls asleep in the desert and has some dream about a ladder with angels going up and down, right?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t a dream, it…”

“You’re gonna tell me it was real,” Dean interjected.

“The ladder was real.” Castiel pulled out a chair and sat down opposite Dean. “It was a Heaven Gate—not unlike the one I used to access Heaven and break out Metatron.”

“So… you’re going to open a gate and sneak back into Heaven?”

“Not exactly. I…”

“You gonna lure some angels down?”

“Dean, stop interrupting me and listen,” Castiel demanded sternly.

Dean made a face and sat himself up straighter in his chair, but gave Cas his full attention.

“The story of Jacob’s Ladder has been separated in the Book of Genesis from the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel, as if they were two separate happenings,” Castiel explained, sounding like a Sunday school teacher. “At the Council of Nicaea in the year 325, early Christian church bishops decreed that the story was blasphemous, but rather than remove it altogether, they broke it up to disguise its true meaning.”

“Which was…?”

“Jacob was not _wrestling_ with that angel all night long—they were making love. Jacob loved the archangel Penuel, and Penuel—whom I knew well—loved him also. Penuel found a way to inhabit his vessel fully, and came to Jacob the night he crossed the river—and they consummated their forbidden love.”

Dean nearly choked on another mouthful. This was definitely NOT Sunday school material. “Holy shit… an archangel? Didn’t Jacob break a hip or something in that story?”

“Yes—they were rather unrestrained. The next day, Jacob named that spot after Penuel—whose name, incidentally, means ‘Face of God.’ And Penuel nicknamed Jacob ‘Israel,’ meaning ‘He who struggles with God.’ It was sort of a private joke, you see. Penuel was always a bit of a braggart.”

“Ok, dude, so they boinked each other’s brains out, and named a country after it, and then what?”

“The complete union of an angel and a human—heart, soul, body and grace—created a gateway between Earth and Heaven: Jacob’s Ladder.”

“Huh. So you want to find this Jacob’s Ladder? Or you want to grab a girl and make Castiel’s Ladder?” Castiel blinked at him for a moment or two. Dean wished he’d get to the point. “C’mon, how’s this ladder thing going to get you angel-ed up again?”

Castiel sighed, and spoke more slowly. “Dean, the opening of a new Heaven’s Gate releases a tremendous burst of pure energy from Heaven and Earth, channeled through the soul and grace. It’s that same energy that created me, and it should be able to re-power me.”

“OK, awesome! But, uh… what’s it do to the human?”

“Nothing—I could take the full force of the energy and protect you. Jacob survived it easily.”

Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Something wasn’t quite kosher…. “Wait… what? Protect _me_?”

Castiel squinted at him. Dean felt as if the angel were trying to peer into his thick skull. “Yes, _you,”_ Castiel answered. “Who else could I make such a powerful connection with? That waitress at the diner the other morning? _Duh_.”

_“Duh?”_

“Yes, _duh,”_ Cas answered matter-of-factly. “Did you really think I cared if she smelled like food? I can’t even smell.” With that, Cas stood up, pushing back his chair. “I’ll be in the library working out a few more details, if you need me.”

***

Back from his morning run, Sam was heading for the shower when he spotted Dean sitting at the kitchen table, shoving a day-old, powdered donut into his pie-hole. He stopped in the doorway. “How stale is _that_?”

Dean didn’t even look up. “Don’t care,” he muttered, lips coated in white. He was staring at his laptop screen. He looked like he’d barely slept the night before. Given the conversation Sam had overheard around midnight, he wasn’t surprised.

“Hey, look, uh… gonna hit the shower, then we need to talk.”

“Yuh,” Dean said, and Sam was pretty sure he wasn’t listening.

In the shower, warm water coursing over his body, Sam let his mind drift back to the night before. Taking a final trip to the bathroom before turning in, he’d heard loud voices coming from the library. Or at least one loud voice—Castiel rarely cared who overheard him, and his deep baritone echoed around the tiled hallways whenever he was in residence. He had to be talking to Dean. Sam stopped short when Cas, incredulous, boomed, “So you’d rather have me drain your very soul than make love to you?!”

Sam froze in his tracks to eavesdrop. He knew Dean had given Cas an ultimatum—find more mojo or sit the next one out. Cas wasn’t happy, but he’d taken the challenge and was sifting through his options. His Plan A, if this conversation was any indication, appeared to involve some type of cosmic nookie.

He listened while the conversation careened around archangels and Nephilim and Lucifer and the Bible and Sodom and Gomorrah and sex, at one point Cas raised his voice and practically hollered, “ _Jimmy_ was a dude— _I_ am _junkless_ , remember?! And I happen to know it hardly matters to you!”

It wasn’t really his business, Sam figured, except for the fact that Dean’s business always turned into his business eventually. And hell, this business was too juicy for Dean to keep to himself.

Toweling himself off and running his fingers through his tousled hair, Sam decided Dean would definitely need a little help handling this particular piece of business.

“So,” Sam began, finally sitting down across from Dean at the table. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Dean replied, snapping his laptop shut. He finally looked up; his mouth was still ringed with sugar.

“Huh. Well, I let Cas borrow my laptop yesterday, and when I went to check the weather this morning, up popped an ad for a gay cruise to the Carribean. Quick search of my history, and it appears that Cas must have spent several hours surfing gay porn. You know anything about that?”

Dean made a stinkface. “Sheesh. Why would I know anything about _that?”_

“Or maybe you know about these…” Sam reached one long arm across the table and picked up a couple of sales receipts floating around. “This one is for a big crystal, which he drove all the way to Hill City to buy. Then on the way back, he stopped in at Kiley’s and picked up some K-Y lube.”

Dean stood up and shrugged theatrically, his voice rising. “How the hell do I know? Why aren’t you asking Cas?”

“’Cause I don’t see Cas here this morning. And ‘cause I’m hoping that if you and Cas are planning to open a Heaven’s Gate in the shower or something—you’re gonna give me a heads-up.”

Sam looked at him levelly, and Dean dropped his gaze, sighing. He sat back down, his mouth tightened into a grim line. “Cas talk to you?”

“He didn’t have to. I could hear him all over the bunker last night.”

“Dammit.” Dean swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then wiped it on his jeans. “I don’t know about this, man. But everything he says makes sense…” He waved his hand helplessly at his laptop. “It might actually work.”

“So what’s the problem?” Sam asked.

“The _problem_?” Dean sat forward. “Dude, the problem is that schtupping Cas will be like doing _you_. We’re _family,_ man. That’s just… weird. Not to mention, this Penuel—Raphael _killed_ him for doing Jacob. And Cas was _at_ Sodom and Gomorrah, which— _hello, sodomy?_ Even if he said the problem was actually a demon infestation… still…”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Dean grouched.

“You, dude. Are you listening to yourself? I’ve heard you bitch less about wrestling hellhounds. This is Cas, and you want him to angel up again, and he wants you to help. He could yank the mojo out of your soul, but he’d rather you make it together. So you gotta have sex with your angel best friend. Boo-freakin’-hoo.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, and he scowled down at his hand on the table. “It ain’t just wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Not just, y’know, friends with bennies. It’s the Full Monty—body, mind, heart and soul. What if I can’t do it? And if I do…” Dean looked up, and Sam knew exactly how much this conversation was making him squirm, “… how do I come back from that? How do _we_ come back from that?”

“I know ‘chick flick’ is not your M.O., Dean. But I’ve seen the way you look at him. The way you’ve always looked at him. I mean ask yourself… will it be so bad if you _don’t_ come back?”

***

That evening, Sam crouched on the floor in the archive room, hunting for a file in box 39B. Dean’s footsteps approached slowly from down the hall, growing louder, turning into the doorway, then the rack beside him creaked as Dean stopped and leaned against it. His sigh spoke volumes.

Sam smiled secretly to himself. “Y’know,” he said conversationally, without looking up, “having our own Heaven’s Gate could come in really handy at some point. But having it here would keep me up at night. How about that old cabin of Bobby’s in Colorado?” Sam suddenly found the file he was looking for and stood up with it, opening the cover. “Here we go,” he said triumphantly, handing the folder to Dean. “Just what we need—the Gatekeeper spell. That’ll keep it locked up tight until further notice.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean said quietly, taking the folder.

“Don’t mention it.” Sam smiled warmly at his brother. “Now go break a hip.”

***

It was a good six-and-a-half-hour drive the next day to Bobby’s old cabin near the Arapaho National Forest; it felt like the longest six-and-a-half hours of Dean’s life. Occasionally, with the radio playing and his brother sitting next to him popping sunflower seeds into his mouth, he forgot they weren’t on a regular-old hunt. Then he’d suddenly startle back to reality, and his eyes would flick to the rear-view mirror. Sometimes Cas would be looking out the window, his brow furrowed; other times, he’d meet Dean’s glance with smiling eyes, and Dean’s stomach would drop.

Dean knew Sam was right—he was being ridiculous—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on such a roller coaster. One minute he was freaking out—thinking all kinds of dire thoughts that ranged from erectile dysfunction to failed warding to what would happen if Cas turned into a _dick_ again once he got his mojo back—then the next minute he was looking into Castiel’s eyes and feeling such a strange _pull,_ such a flood of warmth, and an excitement that made him scramble to hide an insta-boner. He felt like a 15-year-old on prom night, sweaty palms and all.

He could not deny there was something there—something that made him want this. He’d always kept a lid on it, kept it on a low simmer, but it was always there, just at the edge of consciousness. When he looked hard into Cas’ eyes, he felt it—that warm pull _._ It was a gut feeling _of recognition_ , a lost word _on the tip of his tongue_ , a memory _just out of reach_. It was at once scary and completely magnetic.

Then there were the occasional dreams—crazy-vivid, high-octane, psychedelic visions that could only be described as flying like Superman into a giant tornado, or diving underneath Niagara Falls… and then finding himself floating in complete and utter bliss. With Castiel. He never actually _saw_ Castiel, or anything else in these dreams, which were more _feeling_ than vision. Those feelings were scary-powerful, though, and when he awoke, it was often with a wet face and wet shorts and a strange, burning yearning for his angel friend.

He glanced at Cas once again in the mirror. The angel’s head was tipped back against the seat, his eyes closed and the long stretch of his throat bared—the knob of his Adam’s apple, the underside of his jaw, that spot right below his ear, where his hair curled…

Sam suddenly cleared his throat. “Car coming, Dean,” he said loudly, and Dean looked forward just in time to swerve back into his own lane.

Dean could barely eat his sandwich at the diner in Conifer.

And then they dropped Sam off at a motel with a promise to meet in the morning.

And then it was just the two of them.

***

The cabin was small—just one room with a bed and a table and an old couch. It was even more of a hovel than most hunters’ cabins—no electricity, no running water, and an outhouse with a hole in the roof. It was sound, though, and didn’t smell too musty or mousy, and for that Dean was grateful.

“Ok, Cas,” Dean said, standing in the open doorway, trying to sound like he wasn’t in a cold sweat, “you check the warding, and I’ll, uh… unpack and set up the love shack.”

“Alright,” the angel agreed amiably, and Dean went back to the Impala and hauled his bags out of the trunk, brought them back to the cabin, then returned for the cooler. He’d brought some kindling as well, and was glad to see a supply of firewood on the porch. With the sun going down, the night promised to be chilly.

Dean busied himself building a fire in the old woodstove, and making up the double mattress with the bedding they’d brought; when he was done, he gave the mattress a bounce with his behind. _Not too shabby…_

The cabin door opened again, and Castiel came back in, having checked the security indoors and out. He closed the door carefully, locking it, and turned to Dean. “I think everything’s in place, Dean. Are you ready?”

“Uh… now? Just… well, yeah, but I… I have some stuff. Something for you. Here…” Dean jumped up and stepped over to his duffle on the floor, unzipped it and began to rummage. He found the plastic shopping bag tucked inside, and pulled it out, standing up again to hand it to Cas. “We, uh… we should get comfortable, y’know? Chill a little.”

Castiel took the bag from Dean and looked inside. “This is for me?”

“Yeah—put it on.”

The angel pulled out a black t-shirt and plaid flannel pants, and gave Dean a smile that seemed to light up the room. Then suddenly he was dropping trou right there to change, and Dean spun around quickly, back to his duffle. “Oh… uh… ok, then.” He crouched, feeling his face flush hot, and pulled out his own pj pants. There was nowhere private, though, and Dean just stood up and, facing the wall, did the same. When he turned back around, Castiel was gazing at him unabashedly. His trench coat, suit and shirt were folded on a chair. So were his boxers, Dean noticed. He gulped. This was totally happening.

Castiel looked at him so damn tenderly. “You are nervous,” he observed.

“No. Well, yeah. Hell, yeah. I’m… I’m nervous, ok? I mean, you're my best friend, and we're gonna get naked and open a heaven gate, and...”

Castiel stepped close and laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be alright, Dean. But it’s not too late to stop this. Do you want to stop?”

The angel’s hand felt warm, and Dean took a deep breath, looking into those eyes and feeling it again—that strange pull in his chest. He reminded himself of why he was doing this—for Cas. He sighed, and forced a crooked smile. “No. I’m good. I just don't want to fuck this up. Let’s do it.”

Cas smiled back. “Thank you, Dean.” Then he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the selenite crystal wand. “Now are we ready?”

“Wait… what’s that for?”

Castiel approached the bed, and stretched himself out atop the quilts on his back. He held the wand in his left hand, resting on his belly. “Come,” he beckoned. “Sit beside me.”

Dean walked over and sat down on the bed at Castiel’s side. The angel reached out and took Dean’s right hand in his. “This is for my pleasure,” he said with a sly little smile.

Dean raised an eyebrow, not understanding.

“If we’re going to open the gate, I must feel our lovemaking, too. I told you, Penuel fully inhabited his vessel the night he spent with Jacob. So I’m going to inhabit mine. In short, I’m going to empty my grace into this crystal until I feel human.”

That sounded alarming. “Empty your… that won’t kill you?”

“No… you’re going to help me not to overdo. And with the crystal nearby, my grace will slowly return to me on its own. But I should have a few hours to feel my body… and yours."

Dean gulped. Something stirred down below. “What do I do?” he asked softly.

“Just hold my hand,” Castiel replied. Then, as Dean looked on, he closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply. Dean tried to relax and breathe with him, watching his face soften, the lines around his eyes smooth out. Castiel murmured something in Enochian—just a few lines—and a moment later, Dean noticed a soft glow coming from the crystal. He held the angel’s hand tighter, stroking his thumb over Castiel’s knuckles, feeling his fingers twitch. Cas continued to breathe slowly and steadily, the minutes ticking by. Still Dean held on. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the fingers tightened, and Cas slowly opened his eyes.

Dean looked down at him with concern. “Are you ok? How do you feel?” he inquired anxiously, grabbing Castiel’s hand with both of his.

Castiel pushed the crystal into his hands, and Dean reached over carefully to set it on the nightstand. “Hey,” he repeated, “are you ok?”

Cas nodded and got his elbows beneath him, then without a word, pushed himself up and into Dean’s arms.

 

 _If you’re not familiar with the Bible story of Jacob wrestling with the angel, it’s in_ Genesis 32:22-32 _and Jacob’s Ladder is_ Genesis 28:10-17. _Sorry for the sacrilege._

Want to see some lovely and sexy angel-wrestling art? Here are 4 links: <https://www.pinterest.com/pin/505036545683917734/> and <https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a4/1c/69/a41c69852924faf402f836b3fb44a90d.jpg> and sculpture at <http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u_KW4nuKg9k/TTHW7pUAJBI/AAAAAAAAN44/o4cVYubFLKE/s1600/wrestlers%2B-%2BJohan%2BPeter%2BMolin.jpg> and <http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q_o8fIVzyFc/TjLztjbIpPI/AAAAAAAABNs/h0ElWfShJig/s1600/Jacob%2Band%2Bthe%2BAngel%2BCropped%2Bby%2BHendrik%2BAndersen450px-Andersen_Giacobbe_e_angelo.jpg>


	7. Start Me Up

_Dean felt boneless, weightless, suspended in mid-air by… what? One hand on his lower back? He barely cared, his body going slack, his grip slipping. He moaned and leaned into the hand that cupped his cheek, that touched two fingers to his temple..._

_"Look at me,” a familiar voice said. “Look at me, Dean… REMEMBER.”_

_He opened his eyes and gazed up helplessly into fathomless blue, and that’s when he saw it… the creature that came for him._

_His mind could barely take in its glory and brilliance— it swept down upon him, filling Hell’s smoldering sky, terrifying and lovely, begging description, its appearance shifting and changing moment to moment. It shone and shimmered like a mirage… blinding… dazzling. Wings—there were huge wings—two, four… how many of these beings were there? The wings beat the air all around him, creating hurricane waves of burning wind and towering walls of sound. The wings were covered with eyes, or what looked like eyes—like, a thousand eyes. It was a huge bird covered with eyes. Or was it a winged lion? A Pegasus? He could hear shrieking, wailing—chaos and terror all around him in the bowels of the pit—but he couldn’t bring himself to flee. Those eyes could see all. They could see what he’d done: every horrible, unforgiveable thing. This he knew. They could see, but they did not judge. This was a surprise._

***

Castiel clung to Dean like a limpet, breathing harder, fingers digging into his back, but still wouldn’t answer his question.

“Cas… hey… I’ve got you, ok? Talk to me…” Dean held his friend against his chest, sitting face to face on the bed. He tried rubbing the angel’s back. “Talk to me, buddy. I’ve got you. I’m right here,” he soothed, despite the worry beginning to constrict his heart. Something wasn’t right.

He began to rock gently, as if Castiel were a child, still holding, still soothing. A minute passed in silence, then two. Dean tried desperately to be patient, but _what the hell..._. Then Castiel took a deep breath, and sighed it out. And again. Dean finally felt the angel’s body beginning to relax in his arms.

“Cas, c’mon… tell me you’re ok,” he pled.

Castiel finally responded, to Dean’s great relief. He pulled away a little, and Dean grabbed his shoulders to hold him there and look into his eyes. “This brain,” Castiel mumbled, “is rather traumatized. It was hard to get seated.”

“Yeah? Well that makes two of us, man. How do you feel?”

“Overwhelmed,” Castiel answered. “I forgot how difficult this can be. This brain is reminding me that last time I was human and engaged in intercourse, I was killed. It’s urging me to leave.”

Dean frowned. “Brains... you know, sometimes they don’t give the best advice.” He squeezed Castiel’s shoulders reassuringly. “Listen,” he said, “if there’s one thing I’m really good at, besides ganking monsters, it’s ignoring my brain.” He let go of the angel and got to his knees on the mattress. “First off, you just gotta tell your brain you’re safe for tonight—nothing’s gonna get you here. Dean’s not gonna turn into a Reaper and kill you. Okay?”

“That would be a fitting retribution though, after what I did to Billie…”

“Stop that now,” Dean said firmly. “Ain’t gonna happen. Say that with me.”

Castiel nodded, though his face still looked dubious. “Ain’t gonna happen,” he echoed obediently.

“Second thing to do is…” Dean crawled off the bed as he spoke, and headed for the cooler, “… drink a little beer and watch a little porn. Brain medicine. Just so happens I come prepared.” He fished a six-pack of _Margiekugels_ from the old metal cooler, bringing it to the bedside along with the bottle opener. Then he pulled his laptop from the duffle and set it up on the end of the mattress.

Castiel set about opening two beers, while Dean booted up a little SeanCody.com on the laptop. Then he scooted back on the bed, propping some pillows up so they could sit side by side. He took a beer from Cas’ hand. “Thanks, man.” Then he settled back and got comfortable. Castiel copied him, leaning back on the headboard, his arm just touching Dean’s.

The dudes in the movie weren’t wasting any time, Dean thought. He took a couple swigs of beer, letting the cool, bitter brew soothe his throat and his nerves. The temperature in the cabin was rising comfortably, the logs in the stove crackling and popping. The softly hissing propane gas light on the wall gave off a dim, romantic glow. And “Wallace” was moaning as his buddy, “Frankie,” went down on him rather enthusiastically. Dean’s dick began to take notice; he cast a sidelong glance at Cas.

Castiel took a big gulp of beer, then coughed a little. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, though Dean couldn’t help but notice that his ass shifted a little, and he gave the front of his flannel pants a quick tug.

Dean reached a hand over and brushed Castiel’s arm gently; the angel startled a little. “Easy, tiger,” Dean teased. “Still jumpy?”

Castiel gave him a tiny smile. “Getting better.”

“Good. So we’re going to do this?”

“Yes.” Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes, and Dean felt that pull again—like steel to a magnet. He tore his eyes from Cas’ intense gaze to survey his friend’s handsome face: the vivid blue eyes, the strong, stubbly jaw, the perfect nose and lush, full lips, and thought—not for the first time—what a hot-looking dude Jimmy Novak had been. Even if he hadn’t really known how to work it.

Dean let himself reach up to touch that face, running a thumb along Castiel’s jaw, sliding fingers into his hair. Cas seemed to melt into his touch. “You feel me now?” Dean whispered.

“Yes.”

Dean let the backs of his fingers trail down, to where Castiel’s neck met his shoulder, and squeezed his trapezius muscle gently. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas breathed, still staring at him raptly.

He was ready for more touching, but not quite ready for that hardcore stare, Dean thought. He smiled at Cas, then spread his legs apart and patted the mattress in between. “C’mere,” he beckoned. “Sit here.”

Castiel eagerly crawled between his legs, kneeling in front of him, but Dean twirled a finger in the air. “Turn around,” Dean instructed. “Sit down.”

The angel’s face fell a little, but he turned and sat down between Dean’s thighs obediently. Dean drained the rest of his beer and set the bottle down on the nightstand, then reached to grab the hem of Cas’ t-shirt and lifted up. Dean had to remind his friend to lift his arms, then managed to skin the shirt off him and drop it on the bed. He placed his fingers on the angel’s bare shoulders, thinking to massage him, but Cas let out a yelp.

“Oh! Dean, that’s…”

“Cold?” Dean laughed, realizing his left hand was icy from the beer.

“Yes…”

Dean took his popsicle fingers and shoved them in Cas’ left armpit. “This’ll warm ‘em up…”

Castiel cried out again, trying to wriggle away, but Dean laughed, grabbing him around the chest and holding him tight.

“Dean! Stop, please!”

“Stop? Stop what? Hugging you?”

“No—remove your frigid fingers!” Cas didn’t find it quite as amusing as he, so Dean gave in and pulled his cold hand away carefully, but kept his other arm around his friend.

“You’re an ass,” Castiel growled.

Dean chuckled again. “An assbutt?”

“Something like that.”

“Mmm. So I’ve been told,” Dean agreed. He leaned back against the pillows again, and this time pulled Castiel to lean back against him, his right hand sliding up the angel’s chest. “How’s this, then?”

Castiel sighed, relaxing back into Dean’s body. “Better,” he murmured. He drained his beer too, then, and set the bottle next to Dean’s.

Dean looked over Cas’ shoulder, to see Wallace kneeling on all fours in front of Frankie, while Frankie started doing filthy things with his tongue—to Wally’s backside.

“That looks unsanitary,” Cas commented lowly. “I hope Wallace had a shower.”

“Guessing he did,” Dean replied, squeezing Castiel’s pec with his warm hand, and brushing a thumb over the pebbling nipple there. “Frankie seems to think he’s tasty.”

Cas grunted.

Dean couldn’t resist. “Frankie thought Wally’s dick was pretty tasty, too. Swallowed that right up.”

Cas squirmed a little, moving his left hand to rest on Dean’s thigh. He took Dean’s chilly right hand in his own and pressed it tentatively to his bare belly, trying to warm it.

“Sucked it and sucked it. You ever taste a dick, Cas?”

“No…” Cas turned his head to try to look at Dean, but Dean stayed behind him out of reach, “… what does dick taste like?”

Dean reached up and swiped a thumb across Castiel’s lower lip, then pushed gently until Cas opened up and let him slide the digit into his mouth. “Suck,” he whispered. Castiel sucked hard, and Dean’s cock responded with a jerk.

Dean’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Oooh. It tastes like _that_. Like warm skin. Soft, hard, salty… sweet.”

Cas released the thumb with a pop. “I like the taste of you, Dean. I’m going to like your dick. I hope you like mine.”

Dean leaned in close and licked a slow stripe up Castiel’s neck, ending in a wet kiss beneath his ear. “Mmm,” he breathed against Cas’ neck. “I can taste it already.”

“Oh… Dean.” Castiel turned his head again, seeking, searching for Dean’s mouth, and Dean couldn’t deny him any longer. He held the angel tight against his chest and captured Castiel’s lips with his own, kissing him hard, feeling him go nearly boneless in his arms. In contrast, Dean’s cock felt hard as a rock, pressed against Cas’ lower back. If he’d had some reservations about this whole angel sex thing an hour ago, they were no longer anywhere to be found. Angel Cas might be leaking grace, but human Cas was dripping sensuality, once that damn suit came off. This was definitely some kind of sexy librarian magic.

They traded hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses for a minute or three, Dean’s hands running up and down Castiel’s bare chest, and venturing up and down his flannel-clad thighs, when Cas tore his mouth away from Dean’s with a whimper.

“Oh… Dean… Is it supposed to hurt?”

“Hurt? What hurts, buddy?” He stilled his hands on Cas’ sides.

Cas groaned a little. “These… testicles. They _hurt.”_

Dean frowned. “Like, bad hurts or hurts so good? You sitting on one or something?”

“No…” Cas palmed himself, grunting. “It all just _aches…_ it’s getting hard to bear.”

“Damn… uh… you want me to take a look?”

“Yes… please…”

Dean peered over Castiel’s shoulder, while the angel tugged open his waistband and pulled his junk out gingerly. Dean felt a frisson of electric lust course through him, and swallowed hard. He whistled softly. “Dude, you’re just…” he reached down and very gently took the swollen, nearly purple cock in hand, “I’m guessin’ you’re just horny as hell, that’s the problem. You been hard all day, or something?”

Castiel moaned desperately at his touch, panting now. “Yes. I don’t know why, but this penis got excited hours ago—long before I could possibly feel it.”

“Well,” Dean chuckled, “dicks do have minds of their own. I’m gonna say you’ve got a case of the blue balls.”

“The blue… is that bad? What do we do?”

Cas sounded genuinely concerned; Dean had to stifle a laugh. “Gimme some of that lube in your pocket, and I’ll show you.”

Moments later, Dean was showing him, one slick hand wrapped around Cas’ shaft and beginning to slide up and down slowly.

Castiel gasped, arching and pushing up into Dean’s fist. “Oh… oh, Dean… oh, yes…”

Who knew a hand job could be so hot? Dean held Castiel close with his free hand, trying to keep his friend from climbing to the ceiling while he jerked him faster and faster. Cas writhed in his arms, nearly sobbing with pleasure, his hips rolling forward into Dean’s hand, and then back to grind against Dean’s erection.

“Fuck, Cas,” he moaned, licking and biting at the angel’s jaw, rocking and rolling with the movements of his body, “fuck, you’re sensitive… so sensitive…”

Cas grabbed at both Dean’s hands, entwining their fingers, and cried out loudly, his whole body suddenly stiffening and trembling as he began to release.

“Oh, that’s it, buddy… that’s it… come for me, Cas. Come on. That’s good,” Dean purred into his ear, holding and stroking him through his orgasm while he shook and moaned and spurted onto Dean’s knuckles.

Next thing he knew, Castiel was turning in his arms and climbing onto his lap, kissing him lavishly and caressing his face and shoulders and chest, then pulling back to stare once again into his eyes.

“That feel good?” Dean murmured.

“Yes,” Castiel panted, gazing at him intently.

“Awesome.” Dean moved his sticky hand between them, tearing his eyes from Castiel’s to look at it. “I’m covered in angel spooge.”

Cas frowned. “I didn’t mean to do that so quickly.”

“Quickly? Jeez, you prob’ly been holding that since you were last human. That was quite a batch.” He held his hand in front of Castiel’s face to show him. “How many little Nephilims are in here? Nephilim… Nephillies, Nephili… whatever…”

Ignoring the question, Castiel grabbed the hand and wiped it off with his discarded t-shirt. Then, without a word, he stripped Dean of his own t-shirt and pulled him close.

It struck Dean in that moment just how human Cas felt—this wiry, six-foot-tall man in his arms, this warm-blooded lover with skin and bones and blood. This vulnerable person with beard stubble and hairy legs and soft skin and a tattoo, who just came into his palm, and who was still trembling a little, his heart finally slowing, his breath warm on Dean’s neck. This person could have been like a hundred other people—women and a few men—Dean had picked up on a Saturday night in a bar over the past few years. But he wasn’t. This person was special to him. This person loved him. This person deserved everything.

“Cas, what is it you want?” Dean murmured, nuzzling Castiel’s lips, his cheek, “what do you want now?”

Castiel laid his head on Dean’s shoulder, and ground his hips down slowly on Dean’s erection, sighing. “Oh, Dean… now I want everything.”

***

Castiel closed his eyes and enjoyed the dizzying pleasure of being held tight and lifted forward by Dean and laid out backwards on the mattress, his limbs spread-eagled and his body wonderfully relaxed. He felt Dean tugging his legs together and sliding his pants off; a moment later, bliss upon bliss—Dean’s naked body covered him, nudging his legs back open, nestling between his thighs.

He felt Dean’s warm lips against his again, and Dean’s insistent penis nudging his lower belly, and he just laid there quietly for a few moments, the better to absorb the wonder of it all.

“Hey… you ok, buddy?”

Castiel smiled lazily, reached one hand up and grabbed ahold of Dean’s smooth, muscular ass cheek. “I’m just gathering my strength for a blow job,” he replied.

He nearly forgot why they were there together—and he enjoyed the forgetting. That was the thing about being human, wasn’t it—forgetting? Forgetting heaven, forgetting hell, forgetting your own soul… and just _being_ on Earth _._ Just exercising free will on the material plane.

Castiel’s will turned to pleasing Dean, and to experiencing everything Dean could teach him. They kissed and nibbled and stroked each other, rolled and rutted and wrestled, pinning each other in various erotic ways that make Dean sweat and curse. Dean insisted on giving him a blow job first, so that Castiel could learn, he said. Castiel couldn’t lie still and let Dean’s penis go unattended, though—so he insisted on fellating Dean at the same time. Lying close together in the warm, soft bed, touching and smelling and suckling on Dean’s penis—while Dean licked and fondled and sucked his at the same time—was the best feeling in the world, he decided. But that was before Dean fed him cherry pie, and then arranged him on the bed so that they could kiss while Dean fucked him.

It took some time to prepare him, and Dean was gentle and careful, even though Castiel felt very impatient at times, and at other times it hurt a bit. The feeling of Dean’s penis finally sliding into his body was worth the wait, though. Castiel loved the pleasure it brought Dean—the way it made him moan and shiver and cry out. And of course he was stunned by the pleasure it soon brought _him;_ when Dean’s thrusting struck his prostate gland, an electric lust convulsed him and he could not control himself. He felt wanton, shameless, as he backed against his lover and begged for _more, please, YES!_ just like the lascivious young men in the video.

Lying twisted in Dean’s arms, Dean’s cock buried inside his ass, he came for the third time that night without his penis even being touched; his contractions set Dean off, and they climaxed together, groaning and sweating and clutching each other. Castiel palmed Dean’s cheeks, trying to look into his eyes, but Dean kissed him and promptly buried his face in Castiel’s neck, panting and cursing. Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Uuunggh, Dean, I don’t _want_ to be an angel,” he moaned, running his fingers through Dean’s short hair, arching against him. “Why can’t I just have _this?”_

He felt Dean go limp and quiet in his arms, then heard him let out a long sigh. Moments later, Dean was pulling away slowly and carefully, and sitting up. Castiel felt very wet and sticky. Dean handed him the t-shirt they’d been using to clean up with, then climbed off the bed. “Think I need some air,” he said lowly, and slipped into his pajama pants before grabbing a beer and heading quietly out the cabin door.

Castiel had clearly said the wrong thing, he knew. He had _felt_ the wrong thing. Dean was right to be upset. Castiel had let carnal lust distract him from their goal, which was supposed to be opening the gate and energizing him again. But on the other hand, Dean had been little help either. Every time he tried to make a soul connection, Dean had avoided it, looking away or offering a distraction. Dean was holding back.

He finished cleaning himself as best he could, then went to look for Dean. Castiel found him standing on the porch, sipping his beer and looking at the stars. His body was flush with goosebumps, nipples taut in the cold air.

Dean looked at him and frowned. “Dude, put some clothes on—it’s cold out here.”

“I didn’t mean what I said, Dean.” Castiel stepped up to him, laying a hand on his arm, feeling the downy hairs standing on end. “I just love being with you. Please come back inside. I’ll be ready to try again.”

Dean sighed. “I’m afraid this ain’t working, buddy. I mean, don’t get me wrong—it’s fun as hell—but…”

“But what?”

Dean looked him up and down. “C’mon back inside,” he said. “Your dick’s gonna get frostbit.”

Back inside, Dean collapsed onto the bed and Castiel followed, crawling under the blankets to warm himself. Being cold was very unpleasant.

Dean threw an arm across his face, hiding his eyes. “What’re we doing wrong, man—are we going backwards here? Am I just debasing you or something? You don’t _want_ to be an angel now?”

“I have mixed emotions, as humans say,” Cas replied. “I do want my strength and power to return. But I love being with you like this. I like feeling human things.”

“Yeah, well… guess I’ve got mixed emotions, too,” Dean admitted to the ceiling. “I want you to get your groove back, but… what if you go back to being a total dick again? What if you don’t want to hang out with Sam and me? And, I mean, why should you? You’ll be able to fly again and do angel shit, and maybe you’ll just go back to heaven…”

“Is that why you’re holding back?”

Dean scowled at the overhead rafters. “Holding back? What the hell do you want, dude—Cirque du Soleil?”

“I don’t mean physically, Dean…” Castiel reached up to touch Dean’s face, and turn it toward him. “I’m talking about your heart. Your soul.” Dean finally looked into his eyes, but Castiel could only see the faintest glimmer of his spirit there.

“You know I’m not good at that,” Dean murmured, turning on his side to fully face the angel.

“I know,” Castiel replied with utmost seriousness. “I know you fear that if you give me your heart, I’ll leave you. But I won’t. And I know you fear that you aren’t worthy. But you are. You fear that we’ll be punished for this—but by whom? You fear you don’t know how to love—that you don’t love me enough—but you already do.”

“You don’t need to fear love, Dean,” Castiel continued. “What you don’t know is, you ARE love.”

Dean blinked at him, looking dazed, but Castiel only smiled softly. “You’re tired, Dean; the night is passing. Sleep awhile, and I’ll keep watch. Then we’ll try one more time.”

Castiel helped Dean crawl under the blankets with him, and wrapped his friend in his arms. “Sleep,” he repeated. And Dean did.

The fire had died down to embers, the gas lights still hissed softly, and somewhere deep in the woods, an owl called. Castiel held Dean against him, feeling the puff of warm breath on his shoulder. Just barely. He turned his head to look at the crystal lying on the nightstand, and realized that he could feel his grace again; it had been flowing back into him little by little all night, and now it was gathering strength in his core. The stronger it got, the faster it drained the crystal and recharged his angelic being—at least, as much as it could recharge him without a boost from Heaven. In a short while, his grace would completely take over the operation of his vessel and disengage from the brain—and he would lose human sensation once again.

Somewhere between here and there, though, there had to be a sweet spot—a point at which human sensation persisted, but angelic strength gained the upper hand. Perhaps, he thought, this was the event horizon he was seeking—the short time during which he could still feel Dean in his arms, yet once again _see_ the soul in his eyes. Perhaps then, and only then, could they truly become one and open the Gate.

Dean would have to meet him there, however—and that could only happen if Dean _opened_ himself and allowed his soul and mind/body to join. He would have to drop his ever-present vigilance against love and allow himself to feel his true essence. It would be hard for Dean to do this, Castiel knew, but he also knew he could help. Dean loved him. And if Dean had forgotten who he truly was, and who Castiel was to him, then Castiel would remind him.

If Dean could not open himself, Castiel would _open him._  

***

Dean crawled up from sleep like the first amphibian crawling out of the ocean—ponderously and with great effort, but knowing vaguely in its primordial mind that it was called to some sort of higher purpose.

“Guh,” he mumbled to the man lying between his legs, “Whaddaya doin,’ Cas?”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied. “I’m going to suck your dick again.”

“Mmmph. OK. Damn.” Dean’s brain gave a little jolt, and then another, as Castiel began to mouth at his soft penis—which responded rather impressively for being so thoroughly and recently used, Dean thought. Within moments, Cas was gagging a little on his full length, sucking and tonguing at him enthusiastically.

“Fuck you’re good at that,” Dean growled, twining his fingers into Castiel’s forelock, and Cas glanced up at him with those blazing blue eyes under those thick black lashes. He backed off Dean’s cock, gazing at it thoughtfully, keeping a slow motion going with his hand.

“Dean,” Cas began conversationally, “when you returned from Hell… were you taken aback to find yourself with a foreskin again?”

Dean laughed softly. “Jesus, yes. Went to take a piss and thought my dick had melted, or maybe I had some kinda franken-penis. But I figured out pretty quick that under the hood he was the same ol’ DJ.”

“DJ?”

“Dean Junior. Human guys like to name their dicks, y’know?” Dean looked down at him, smiling wanly, remembering those first disorienting days back on Earth. “I s’pose it made sense, though—that if God was gonna reboot me, I’d be back to factory settings.”

“God didn’t do it,” Castiel replied nonchalantly, in between long licks.

“No? Then who did?”

“I did. I brought your soul up from hell, and I was given the task of repairing your body. I read your DNA like a blueprint and built you again from nothing.”

“Wait, what?” Dean grabbed Castiel’s hand, stopping his ministrations. “ _You_ did that?”

Cas smiled mysteriously, then turned his gaze back to Dean’s cock. He ran his thumb around the exposed head. “Of course, Dean. And if you don’t like the foreskin—well, I can remove it again for you.”

Dean’s hand flew protectively over his crotch. “Ho! No no no, I’m good, pal.”

“I am teasing you, Dean,” Castiel got up to his knees, “about the circumcision.” Then the angel climbed off the bed to stand beside it. “But not about my deeds.”

As Dean gazed up, Castiel reached for him, seized him behind the knees, and suddenly dragged him, spread-eagled, to the edge of the mattress. Dean made a strangled noise of surprise. Cas was full of surprises tonight. Part of Dean was digging it, and part was just a little spooked. Surprises, in his experience, had a way of sucking…

Castiel bent forward, lowering himself to kiss and lave at Dean’s nipple, spreading a hand in the middle of Dean’s chest. “I know this body, Dean. I know it better than I know Jimmy’s. And I know your soul. You and I are more intimate than you realize.”

Dean felt a chill, goosebumps rising on his arms. Then Cas lifted his head. Dean locked eyes with him, and there it was again—that pull, that warmth, dissipating the chill of fear. That recognition... something deep and hidden…

“I see you, Dean. I _see you._ Come to me.” Cas lifted the hand from his chest, and laid it aside his cheek. “Come to me,” he repeated.

Dean had the distinct impression that Cas was talking to something deeper than his skin and bones, deeper than his ego, even deeper than his heart. He felt himself standing on the edge of a yawning chasm, his toes over the edge. Something was stirring down there inside him, bubbling up like magma, and he could feel himself about to fall into it. He would be subsumed, consumed, dissolved... and he might just love it. He gasped, closing his eyes against the sensation… against Castiel’s fathomless stare.

He heard Castiel growl. “You are stubborn and fearful Dean. Stop fearing your Self. Stop fearing me.” A moment later, he felt Cas grab his half-hard cock again, hand slippery with lube. The angel gave it a few pulls, and Dean couldn’t stifle a moan. His eyes flew open to see Cas standing between his spread thighs, squatting to line up their pricks together and wrap his hand around both.

“Oh, hell, yeah,” Dean groaned, as Cas began to rub and stroke and squeeze their cocks together. “Oh fuck, Cas….”

“When I pulled you from hell it was inside my own being, Dean. I carried you inside me. And when… oh… when I remade you, your soul watched. Watched me moving all over you, inside you, infusing you, creating you…”

“I don’t remember…”

“Your brain was dead. Your soul remembers. It remembers every time we… Oh, Dean…”

Castiel drew his own penis out of his grip, leaving only Dean’s to be fondled. The angel’s free hand ran its way up and down Dean’s ribcage, then up and down Dean’s thigh, spreading him open wider; a moment later, careful fingers found their way beneath Dean’s balls, tracing along his perineum to touch him in a very private place. Dean tried not to clench, but lying on his back at the edge of the mattress, legs in the air and ass exposed—he’d never felt quite so vulnerable. His thighs began to tremble.

“Do you trust me Dean?” Cas asked, drawing back his hand to lube it up.

“You know I do, Cas,” he said a little shakily.

“Good,” Castiel replied calmly. “So you’ll be relaxed in complete surrender when I fuck your brains out. We will cover this bed with our seed, and your heart will unlock, and our bliss will be complete as your love and mine are joined. The gate will open and I shall be made whole. Are you ready?”

Dean blinked up at his friend, wide-eyed. “Shit. Yeah.”

Castiel did not allow him further time to freak out. There was no stressing, no hesitating or second guessing—only an onslaught of intense pleasure as the angel did something amazing with his slippery fingers, then something hot and naughty with his wet mouth, then something else with even more fingers—and holy crap, it felt electric. Like, literally, super-charged, Dean thought—when there was a split second to think, because GOD that made him gasp and OH FUCK he couldn’t stop shaking, and then OHMYFUCKINGLORD Castiel’s cock was pushing its way inside him and he heard himself keening with the unbearable deliciousness of it.

Castiel pressed him down into the mattress, lying atop him and thrusting gently at first. “Dean,” he urged, and Dean opened his eyes to see Castiel’s face just inches away. “Look at me. Oh, Dean… I see you.”

“Cas… Ah… I see you too…”

“No… you don’t. Dean, come to me. _Open to me_.”

Castiel began to thrust deeper and harder, and Dean arched up to meet him, toes curling. “When I found you in hell, at first you feared me,” the angel growled. And as Dean stared up at him—was he mistaken, or did Castiel’s eyes begin to take on an eerie glow in the dim lamplight?

“Like most creatures do, you found me ineffable… and terrifying….”

Without breaking stride, Cas suddenly shoved a hand beneath Dean’s back and smoothly stood up, lifting Dean as if he weighed no more than a child. Dean gasped, clamping his legs around Castiel’s waist and his arms around the angel’s neck, but Castiel had no trouble bearing Dean’s considerable weight in his arms. His dick didn’t even slip out—and in a couple of strides, Castiel walked him over to the bathroom door, and began to nail him to it.

“I carried you, Dean,” Cas continued, not even breathless, while Dean panted and moaned and sweated, his ass banging against the door. “It was a terrible journey, and I protected and comforted you. I held you and kept you safe. You trusted me, Dean.”

“I still… I still trust you, Cas.”

“Then come to me, Dean. Leap to me and I’ll catch you. You’ll be safe.”

“I’m… Ah, Christ… I’m trying!”

“Don’t _try_. Surrender!”

The support of the door suddenly disappeared as Castiel backed into the middle of the room, and Dean found himself clinging around the angel’s waist as, powerful thighs flexing, Cas held him and fucked him hard and fast while standing. “I’m _inside you_ Dean,” Cas growled between clenched teeth. “My body and my grace. You hold a piece of it. I hold a piece of you. We are bonded already. Can’t you feel it?”

“Uuungh… I feel…. your DICK…”

Dean’s orgasm struck like a bolt of lightning, blasting through his body, frying his mind, searing his soul. He made an ungodly noise, writhing and wracked with pleasure, painting Castiel’s belly with semen. Cas fucked him right through it, and kept on fucking.

“Dean, I love your body’s pleasure—but your soul’s pleasure is so much deeper. Feel it, Dean.”

“Dude, I… I _can’t_ …” Dean was getting uncomfortably sensitive, but Cas would not stop—and would not come. His eyes were definitely glowing, now. “Please, Cas…”

“Dean, I love you. You love me. We are one. You know it, but you’ve forgotten. _REMEMBER_ , Dean.”

“I _can’t_ remember,” Dean moaned, the undertow of exhaustion beginning to pull at his limbs. He let his head fall back, and just concentrated on hanging on—trying to relax into the motion of Castiel’s body. Outside the window, the sky was just lightening—and Cas was banging him relentlessly… fucking him senseless…

Dean felt boneless, weightless, suspended in mid-air by… what? One hand on his lower back? He barely cared, his body going slack, his grip slipping. He moaned and leaned into the hand that cupped his cheek, that touched two fingers to his temple...

 “Look at me,” a familiar voice said. “Look at me, Dean… _REMEMBER_.”

He opened his eyes and gazed up helplessly into fathomless blue, and that’s when he saw it… the creature that came for him.

_His mind could barely take in its glory and brilliance— it swept down upon him, filling Hell’s smoldering sky, terrifying and lovely, begging description, its appearance shifting and changing moment to moment. It shone and shimmered like a mirage… blinding… dazzling. Wings—there were huge wings—two, four… how many of these beings were there? The wings beat the air all around him, creating hurricane waves of burning wind and towering walls of sound. The wings were covered with eyes, or what looked like eyes—like, a thousand eyes. It was a huge bird covered with eyes. Or was it a winged lion? A Pegasus? He could hear shrieking, wailing—chaos and terror all around him in the bowels of the pit—but he couldn’t bring himself to flee. Those eyes could see all. They could see what he’d done: every horrible, unforgiveable thing. This he knew. They could see, but they did not judge. This was a surprise._

_He wondered briefly if the creature were actually changing form, or if the shifts were an illusion—perhaps his mind’s desperate attempt to make sense of something he could not process. It reminded him of a National Geographic program he’d watched on squid—a thousand of them flowing through the black ocean, phosphorescing in synchrony, mysterious and lovely, now here and now there, now everywhere in the deep, confusing the eye and the mind. Were they a thousand separate creatures of one mind, or one creature with a thousand appearances?_

_Then, suddenly, the spectacle of wings and eyes and creatures and light disappeared—and there before him was Sam. His brother, Sam. He looked radiant and handsome, and Dean fell to his knees, overcome with every emotion—love and shame, horror and grief. He could barely look at his brother; he did not deserve to see him again._

_“Dean,” Sam said solemnly into the silence, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to bring you back. Your time in this place is finished.”_

_“Sam… no… you don’t know what I’ve done,” Dean replied brokenly. “How can I go back?”_

_“You’ve suffered much, yet you’ve been strong. You are forgiven,” Sam told him. “You are needed on Earth. Will you come?”_

_Dean quivered on his knees, disbelieving. It was Sam, but not Sam. It was not the specter of Sam that Alistair had conjured many times to torture him. That Sam had always been filled with fear, or hatred, or grief. This Sam was different—this Sam radiated love._

_“Dean,” Sam repeated urgently, “I need you. Will you come?”_

_“Yes,” Dean whispered, and Sam reached out to him, laid a glowing hand on his shoulder. The hand burned,_ burned _, but Sam was smiling, and the burning was good, it was cleansing, and the fire blazed all through him. Then suddenly Sam was gone and he was caught up—caught in a whirlwind and lifted and carried. Inside this hurricane of wings and eyes and terrible power, he wasn’t afraid. Inside the hurricane was a calm, bright eye of light, of love and devotion, and he gravitated to it, making his way there by submitting to its pull and opening himself completely to its healing radiance. It filled him with_ joy _. It wanted to_ know _him._

_Dean had for forty years suffered death and torment, shame and anguish—but here, in the intimate heart of this breathtaking being, he was offered nothing but love for his sins. Here he could be naked and unashamed. Here he could remember who he truly was…_

Dean gasped raggedly, stunned beyond stunned. “I remember!” he croaked. _“Cas, I remember!”_ Tears began streaming unchecked down his face; he could feel them but he couldn’t care. He was dimly aware of his back hitting the mattress again, and Castiel looming over him, glowing like a firefly’s ass.

 _“Come to me, Dean,”_ Castiel pled one last time. _“Will you come?”_

“Yes,” Dean breathed, clutching his angel, and Cas plowed into him deeply, one last time, and climaxed with a hoarse shout. Dean felt his chest crack wide open, his heart exploding with a love that surged up through him like a pillar of fire, and the last thing he remembered was Castiel’s blazing gaze and his urgent cry— _Cover your eyes!_

 

_Author's note: So we've learned some new things about Dean's penis in this chapter... just rewatched the Season 4 episode where he talked about being "re-hymenated" and having lost all of his old scars, and a little lightbulb went off. Aha! Hope you enjoyed - if you dug it, let me know!_


	8. You Can't Always Get What you Want

Sam blinked into the dim motel room, wondering suddenly what had awoken him. Gray light shone around the edges of the cheap curtains—it was just after dawn. He reached under his pillow for his knife, then turned over slowly, as if he were still asleep. When he peered in the direction of the other double bed, he realized there was someone lying in it.

He sat bolt upright. “Dean? That you?”

No reply.

Sam slid out of bed cautiously and leaned over to peer at the figure in the dim light. It was indeed Dean—lying still as death, apparently naked but wrapped loosely in the quilt he’d brought from the bunker.

Sam leaned over further, peered harder, until he detected Dean’s chest rising and falling with his breath. He let himself exhale. It had been a rough night—first of trying NOT to imagine what was going on in that cabin, then having the weirdest nightmares about it every time he nodded off. Angels pouring out of the heaven’s gate and taking over the world. Dean and Castiel getting sucked into Purgatory again. Castiel fucking Dean to death and disappearing forever…

A rustle of wings suddenly startled him, and he whirled around to see Castiel standing at the end of the bed, fully clothed in suit and trench coat. “Hello, Sam,” Castiel said.

“You can fly!” Sam blurted. Cas smiled a little and inclined his head, and Sam thought he detected an excited gleam in the angel’s eyes.

“So you… it… everything went ok?” Sam prodded excitedly.

“Very much so. It worked as expected, and I believe I’m at full power once again. The spell successfully locked the gate for now. And Baby is back in the parking lot with Dean’s belongings.”

“And he…” Sam jerked a thumb at Dean, “… he’s alright?”

“Yes.” Castiel walked around to the other side of the mattress, and sat down beside Dean, reaching out to brush a knuckle tenderly across his cheek. “But I do believe I wore him out.”

Dean let out a groan as if in answer, and opened his eyes. He looked at Sam blankly, blinking. “Cas?” he said, sounding utterly confused. Castiel touched his face again, turning his head to look in the angel’s direction. “I’m here, Dean,” he said.

Dean reached out to him, grabbing at his coat. “Where are we? What happened? Did we…?

“Yes, we did,” Cas replied. “ _You_ did. Thank you, Dean.” And as Sam looked on, Cas bent low and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth—whereupon Dean kicked the quilt open and wrapped himself around the angel like a naked octopus, yanking him down.

“Ho! Sam’s right here!” Sam hollered, doing an about face and retreating into the bathroom.

Dean really didn’t seem to care.

He seemed to care even less on their way to breakfast, the three of them sitting abreast in the front seat while Sam drove and Dean kissed and nuzzled Cas all the way to the diner.

In the parking lot, Sam got out and turned to look at them with a smirk. “Can you guys peel yourselves apart for half an hour, or do you want me to bring something out?”

Dean didn’t even bother calling Sam a bitch. Red flag. “I’m starving,” he said brightly.

Despite being famished, Dean had to be reminded to eat. He spent all his time at the table staring sleepily and adoringly at Cas, who smiled back at him indulgently and occasionally tapped his plate to call Dean’s attention to his sausage and eggs. Sam gave up trying to talk. When the jukebox came on mysteriously and Dean broke into a goofy grin, it only took Sam a split second longer to recognize the opening chords to _Stairway to Heaven._ He threw up a little in his mouth.

***

Two days later, Sam couldn’t stand the love-fest a moment longer. He had barely seen Dean and Cas at all since arriving back at the bunker, and he’d been wearing headphones nearly nonstop to avoid hearing the shameless noises emanating from Dean’s room. What actually concerned him, though, was that when he _did_ see his brother and Castiel roaming at large, Dean wasn’t _Dean._ He would have expected ass-grabbing, lewd jokes and a little kiss-and-tell when they got a moment to catch up; what he got were smiles and hugs and snippets of uplifting conversation and encouragement. It was starting to freak him out.

In the evening, when Dean had extricated himself from Castiel’s presence long enough to brush his teeth, Sam grabbed the angel in the hallway of the bunker and pulled him aside. “I want my brother back,” he demanded.

Cas sighed, nodding—as if he were waiting for this moment. “I understand your concern, Sam. Dean is acting different than usual.”

“Different? He’s acting _brain-damaged_ , Cas. What happened to him? What did you _do_?”

The angel frowned a little. “You know I would not hurt your brother,” he chastened. “If there were something truly wrong with him, I would fix it.”

“Then what _is_ wrong with him?” Sam pushed.

Cas looked at him hard. “Do you remember when you were soul-less, Sam?

“You can’t be telling me he’s got no soul…”

“No—quite the opposite. Dean’s soul has taken over, and completely subjugated his ego. And the sole desire of his soul at the present time seems to be loving and adoring me.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, then knitted together. “Huh… Well, as weirdly fascinating as that is, and as much as you seem to be enjoying it… it isn’t getting us any closer to finding Kelly Kline and Dagon. And I really don’t want to have to explain this to mom when she gets back. So… “

The angel sighed again, seemed to deflate somewhat. “You are right, Sam. I had hoped it would wear off by now and he would find more balance, but…”

“… but he’s still in la-la-land,” Sam finished. “Is there anything you can do, Cas?”

At that moment, the door opened and Dean stepped out of the bathroom. He looked from Sam to Castiel and back again, his smile fading as he focused on his brother. “You ok, Sammy?” he asked. “You’ve seemed unhappy all day. Something we should talk about?”

Sam snorted. “ _You_ wanna _talk_?” He shook his head and shot Castiel a look. “I’m good, Dean. I’m just tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Alright,” Dean answered, “goodnight,” and gave Sam his third awkwardly-long hug that day. Then, to Sam’s chagrin, Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You know you’re everything to me, Sam,” he said sincerely, and it suddenly occurred to Sam that maybe Dean thought he was jealous. He wasn’t sure if that was creepy or adorable; nevertheless he couldn’t help but smile.

“I know, Dean,” he replied. “You, too. Goodnight.”

***

Castiel followed Dean into his bedroom and gently closed the door. He stood there watching as Dean removed his flannel, then his shoes, and walked over to the dresser to empty his pockets. Dean paused there, picking up and fingering the selenite crystal. “I could hear you talking, you know,” Dean said softly.

“I know,” Castiel replied.

“Sam is right. My time here is finite, and I’ve got work yet to do. Lessons to learn.” He turned to Castiel and smiled wistfully. “Much as I’d just like to hang around schtupping rebellious angels.”

Castiel felt a surprising pang of sadness. He had thought that being powered-up again would be the death knell for his human emotions, but instead of blocking the feelings, his grace just changed his experience of them. Now, rather than being rocked by each emotion and reacting to it impulsively as a human would, he was able to examine the feeling and decide whether to remain detached, or to experience it fully. As usual, he had opened himself to anything that arose in response to Dean.

What arose was grief. “Dean, I am so sorry,” he said lowly.

“Sorry for what?” Dean asked, coming to him. “For the incredibly awesome sex? For letting me help you fire your grace up? Or for allowing me to live in complete alignment for the past two days?”

Castiel frowned. “You know it’s not true alignment if your ego has simply been stunned into submission.”

Dean smiled gently at that. “Well, I guess you’ve got me there. The minute he remembered our rescue from hell…” he said, referring to his earthly self in the third person, “… there were bound to be  repercussions.”

Castiel stepped close to Dean and put his arms around him, drawing the man into a hug. Though he could not feel Dean’s body, still Dean’s soul bathed him in warmth and sweet affection—and that was enough. Dean returned the embrace.

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel said simply, glad of the fact that Dean’s soul would never shrink from that, even if his ego did.

“You know I love you, too, Cas,” Dean replied, pulling back just enough to give him a tender kiss. “Now don’t be sad. Just do what you have to do.”

***

The next morning, Castiel waited at the kitchen table for his friends. As usual, Sam returned from a run just about the time Dean staggered out of bed to grope his way to the coffeepot. Looking particularly rumpled, Dean stopped in front of the coffeemaker and stared for a moment at the empty pot. He turned a baleful eye on Castiel.

“What—no angel coffee?”

Sam stood in the doorway, stretching himself on the jamb, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s good to see you up, Dean,” Castiel said. A little sleight of hand produced a paper cup of coffee with the logo of the local market on it, and Cas got up and brought it to his friend, laying a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve been worried about you.”

Dean squinted at him, glanced over at Sam. “Worried? Why? And what… where did that coffee just come from?”

“You’ve been ill—you’ve been in bed for three days. A terrible fever,” Cas told him.

“Yeah,” Sam piped up. “Bad.”

“What—seriously?” Dean looked stunned. “I don’t even remember being sick!”

Sam shot Castiel a look. “What _do_ you remember?”

“Well last thing I remember, we were talking about getting Cas his mojo back—opening a Heaven’s Gate. I was all set to do the Jacob’s Ladder thing… but…” Dean looked back and forth between his brother and his angel, confused.

“The next morning you took ill,” Castiel lied, unable to look Dean in the eye when he said it.

“So… no more mojo?”

Castiel looked at Sam, and wondered suddenly and maliciously what the brothers would say if he claimed to have opened the gate with the younger Winchester. Things would certainly get interesting.

Instead he replied, “My mojo is at maximum capacity,” and taking a few steps back into the middle of the kitchen, he flared up into a threat display—spreading his perfect wingtips to the wall and radiating as much as he dared, without hurting their eyes.

“Whoa!” Dean sat up straight, his face lit with a grin. “That’s awesome! How do you feel?”

Castiel folded his wings again and turned the light show off. “Better than ever. Although that waitress—I believe I may have dislocated her hip.”

Dean’s smile disappeared, and a shadow seemed to flit across his face. “Waitress… huh. So you, uh…” the grin came back, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “you got laid again, finally.”

The angel forced himself to look Dean in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “And she smelled like food.”

***

Doing the right thing had never felt so wrong.

Castiel sat in the back seat of the Impala, safely ensconced in the bunker’s garage. Outside, a thunderstorm raged; hail bounced off the windows, and Castiel was aware of a funnel cloud about six miles distant, moving away across the Kansas fields to the northeast at 42 miles per hour. He could go out and put a stop to it, if he so chose. He could fly anywhere in the universe—even to heaven or hell—but instead he sat in the Impala, remained in his vessel, and chose to feel human grief.

He had been foolish, he knew—foolish to indulge in a fantasy that was against heaven’s law. He had let himself believe that he and Dean could be lovers on the physical as well as the spiritual plane. That Dean could truly know him in every sense, and that he could serve Dean joyously and openly for the rest of his existence. Dean’s soul was onboard, but Dean’s ego was not ready for all of that—and perhaps he never would be.

Castiel looked up, spoke softly to God. “You knew, didn’t you? But you didn’t correct your child. I had to make my own mistakes. I had to learn.” He couldn’t be angry at his creator anymore. He had wanted free will. They had all wanted it.

He closed his eyes and remembered Dean’s lips on his neck, Dean’s hands on his ass… the beautiful feeling of pressing his soft animal body against another in this material dimension. Would he never feel that again? He almost wished he’d never felt it in the first place. How could he bear being around Dean now, knowing what it was like to lie with him and touch him—and knowing he could not do it again?

The door banged open and the lights came on in the garage; for a moment he considered escaping in flight, but it was Sam. He somehow seemed to sense Castiel’s presence in the car.

Sam opened the front passenger door and climbed in, turning himself to look at Castiel over the back seat. “Hey, Cas,” he said quietly. “Thank you for doing what you did. I know it wasn’t easy—but it was the right thing to do.”

Castiel sighed. “Obscuring his memory was the right thing, Sam. So why does it feel so wrong? I made him forget the best night of my existence. I made him forget the hallowed moments we first met. I made him forget he ever saw my true being. His soul remembers, but he…” Castiel waved a hand toward the rest of the bunker, indicating the being there, “…does not.”

Sam winced. “I’m sorry.”

Cas shrugged—such a human gesture. “It is the price I must pay for what I’ve done. I am a foolish creature. Each time I break heaven’s law, the pleasure is meted out with an extra measure of pain. Yet, I persist…”

“That’s life, isn’t it?” Sam said softly.

Cas lifted his face to the sky, as if seeing through everything that lay above them and into the expanse of heaven. “I’m going to leave now, Sam,” he finally decided. “I’ll be following a lead on Kelly Kline. I believe… I believe I’ll be away for a while. Tell Dean not to worry.”

And in a rustle of wings, he was gone.

 


	9. Gimme Shelter

When Castiel’s awareness returned, it came with confusion. What had happened that caused him to lose his consciousness? And for how long? Awareness of self also came with awareness that his Self had somehow diminished again—severely. Last thing he remembered he was fully empowered—he had urged Dean and Sam back through the dimensional rent, and finally, triumphantly, sank his blade into Lucifer. And then… what? The last thing he remembered was not Lucifer’s face—it was Dean’s.

Castiel tried to take stock of himself and his surroundings, but something felt terribly wrong. His energy was uncoordinated and weak. He could scarcely focus, and directing intention seemed out of the question. He had been very low on grace before, but this time… he felt like a tiny flame flickering in the vast expanse of celestial night. All around him… darkness. A void. Perhaps… he thought, before fading out again… perhaps this was death.

 ***

“Dean,” Sam said gently. “Hey… Dean…”

Dean stirred himself to look up at Sam from where he sat brooding at the kitchen table. “Hmm… yeah?”

Sam made a mental note of the way Dean lifted a hand to rub absently at his chest again.

“You hungry? I could fix some lunch. If there’s something you want, I’m thinking about making a grocery run.”

Dean stared a few moments, then shrugged and turned back to his laptop. “Not so much.”

Sam sighed, leaning up against the door jamb, and studied his brother. How many days had Dean been schlumping around the bunker in those same flannel pants and t-shirt? This morning he’d thrown the old robe on too. His hair stuck out in all directions and he hadn’t shaved in at least a week.

Dean made a pretense of clicking on a link and reading, but Sam knew better. Dean’s eyes were not moving across the screen; he seemed to be staring into space.

“Dean, you know it’s been six weeks, and…”

“… and three days,” Dean finished, his voice flat.

“Ok… six weeks and three days, and maybe it’s time we took a job, you know? You always feel better when we get back in the saddle. We’re… we’re not getting anywhere right now with…” Dean closed his eyes, his mouth in a grim line, and Sam’s words died on his lips. He sighed. “Listen,” he tried again after a moment, “I’m worried about you. You seem sick. When was the last time you ate?”

Dean shrugged. “Had some cereal last night.” His hand went back to his chest and stayed there, heel pressing into his sternum.

“And what… why do you keep doing that?” Sam finally asked, gesturing at his own chest. “You got heartburn or chest pains or something?”

His brother’s brow furrowed and he turned his gaze to Sam again. “I dunno,” he answered, pulling his hand away. “It just feels funny.”

Sam soon realized that was all the conversation he’d get out of Dean that morning, despite further entreaties to talk or to eat; in despair, he slouched out of the kitchen and finally out of the confines of the bunker, which was feeling increasingly claustrophobic lately. Sam walked until he found himself on the little hilltop above their home, where he’d spoken to Castiel the night they returned from prison—the night after Cas killed Billie.

He looked down at the fresh-turned dirt at his feet, the clusters of drooping native flowers and grasses they’d tried to plant on the new grave.

“Dammit, Cas,” he breathed. “Fuckin’ cosmic consequences…”

Watching Dean wallow in his grief was awful (and, of course, Sam had his own share of sadness over Castiel’s death), but even worse, it also dredged up memories he’d just as soon forget—memories of having to bear his brother’s torn body away, prepare him for burial and put him six feet under, certain that he’d never see Dean again in this life or the next. He understood what Dean was feeling now.

Dean had refused, at first, to believe that Castiel’s death was final this time; the angel had, indeed, been resurrected at least four times prior. Three times if you didn’t count the time he was human. Twice if you didn’t believe Leviathan actually killed him; he never did talk about how he ended up naked on that riverbank. But Dean had kept his coat and grieved him for dead for months; ditto the time Dean left him in Purgatory. So actual mortality didn’t always matter—what counted was the mourning.

This was the one time, though, that they’d truly watched Castiel die in spectacular angel fashion—a brilliant finale that left the charred imprints of his wings seared into the earth. To Sam, it seemed pretty conclusive.

After watching Castiel’s murder, Sam remembered leading Jack from the house, wrapped in his jacket. He brought the barefoot, silent Nephilim boy straight out to where Dean knelt on the ground by the fallen angel. “This is Castiel,” Sam said softly. “He took care of you and your mother. Can you help him?”

“Castiel,” the boy murmured—his first word—and his brow knit together as he crouched to view the body. In a moment, he turned from where Castiel lay on the ground to face Dean. His hand shot out suddenly, straight at Dean’s chest—and Dean gasped, wide-eyed, but didn’t move. Sam grabbed the boy’s shoulder, and the hand stopped just short of Dean’s sternum.

“Castiel,” Jack repeated, his gaze taking on an eerie glow again. He locked eyes with Dean, and horror suddenly overtook his features. “Angel-eater!” he breathed, wide-eyed— Sam was still trying to figure that one out—and vanished without a trace.

They hadn’t agreed on a next step. Sam wanted to chase down the Nephilim; he seemed the bigger threat, especially in the wrong hands. Mary… well, what chance did she have in the hands of Lucifer—and how would they ever get to her? They had no idea where she _was_ —and no one to ask. Dean wanted to try, though. He insisted Cas would help. They brought the angel’s body back to the bunker and laid him on the bed in the room he often used. Dean was bleary-eyed and grim but resigned for the first few days—alternately checking on his friend and scouring the literature and the Men of Letters archives for anything about finding and opening alternate universes. He seemed to expect Cas to come wandering down the hall into the library any minute, brushing the dirt off his trench coat.

But it didn’t happen.

Two weeks passed and Sam began to feel as though the body in the bunker was a ticking bomb wired to his brother. It wasn’t Cas anymore, it was Jimmy Novak’s corpse—going south—and Dean couldn’t face the fact that Cas wasn’t coming back, and Sam couldn’t stand it anymore. He went shopping, drove all over the county to find another black suit and shirt and tie in the right size and a trench coat, for Christ’s sake, when every store had shorts and swimsuits on the racks. But he eventually returned to the bunker, mission accomplished, and handed his brother a neatly folded pile.

“Should we bury him in these, or do you want to keep the clean clothes here for when he comes home?” Sam said gently but firmly.

Dean worked all night on a wooden casket, and in the morning they carried it—then the freshly clothed body—up the hill to this spot. The two of them dug a grave and carefully laid what was left of their best friend in it and while Sam was a blubbering mess at that point, Dean was oddly silent.

“D’you wanna say something, Dean?” Sam asked, when the last shovelful had been tossed over the casket.

Dean looked up at the sky. “C’mon home, Cas,” he implored softly. “We really need you.”

But Cas hadn’t come home, and they had no leads on Mary or Jack, and now Dean was slowly and mysteriously fading. Sam toed at a clod of dirt, and the wind off the plains bent the grass stems low and blew his hair into his eyes.

***

Dean sat on the sun-warmed dock, jeans rolled up and feet in the cool water. His fishing pole lay beside him where he must have set it down, line still in the water and the red and white bobber riding the gentle ripples. This place—it felt very familiar. He’d been here many times…

“Hello, Dean,” a voice said, and Dean turned to see Castiel walking up behind him, his boots echoing on the boards.

“Cas…” He felt vaguely like he should be surprised, but it seemed perfectly natural to meet Castiel here. He stood up and turned to face his friend. “It’s really good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Castiel said, smiling softly.

“Is this… is this real?”

“Yes and no,” Castiel replied.

“Is it… are you dreamwalking me again?”

“Yes,” the angel confirmed, and then his face grew serious. “Dean, we only have a short time. My energy is critically low. I don’t know why or what happened. Can you tell me?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “I watched you _die._ Right in front of me. It was awful.”

Castiel sighed, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. For some reason, he couldn’t feel it. “I’m so very sorry, Dean. But I don’t understand— _how_?”

Dean frowned. His mind seemed to go blank. “I don’t… I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Castiel’s face darkened. He tilted his head, and his eyes seemed to stare right through Dean into his very soul. “Stop protecting me,” the angel pled. “ _Tell_ me.”

“I don’t know,” Dean repeated. “Really.”

Drawing his hand back, the angel stood up straighter, appearing to resign himself. “Perhaps you don’t,” he allowed. Then he added, contritely, “and I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

“For what?” Dean was confused now. This wasn’t making sense. And there was so much he wanted to know, but his brain felt drugged. It was as if he were underwater, drowning, but he managed to catch and hold onto a thought and pull himself up. “Cas, where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you… we buried you, man, and I didn’t want to, but…”

Castiel suddenly vanished before his eyes and Dean stopped short, mid-sentence. For a moment he was alone on the dock with his fishing pole again. Then Castiel’s voice manifested out of thin air.

“Dean, I’m losing strength again. Please listen. I’m with you—I never left. I’m here…” And Dean again felt the strange tingling warmth in his chest, behind his breastbone. “… thanks to you.”

***

Dean was unhappy with him, that much was clear. Dreamwalking had drained him again, but he felt the effort was worth the setback; it was clear that his earthly friends were suffering on his account, and he felt desperate to do what he could to soothe them. Dean’s soul fussed around him, holding him and alternately singing comfort to him and vibrating displeasure. The angel hadn’t the strength to respond, but eventually Dean calmed and Castiel found himself floating peacefully in his friend’s embrace. He let his awareness drift again—it was so easy to do anymore—and he nearly missed what happened next.

He felt tendrils of Dean’s soul reaching into his grace, tentatively at first, then more boldly when he didn’t react. The bright tentacles penetrated and laced him with light, and then the transfusion began—a slow surge of brilliant energy and power, pouring into and through him like molten lava, building and strengthening him. It was a love infusion, a sweet, gentle ecstasy, and Castiel trembled as wave after wave entered, filled him and became part of him.

Later, as he drifted and rested, it came to him just what Dean had done—what he had been doing for some time now. It was exactly what he’d never wanted—Dean was saving Castiel’s life and rebuilding the angel’s grace by draining his own soul.

***

Sam kept at Dean for a week, until his brother agreed to accompany him on a basic salt-and-burn in Nebraska. Dean was in no shape for a fight, but Sam told him he wanted the company, and that he’d do all the work AND the research AND the donut runs if Dean would just hang out in town and man the phone.

So Dean agreed, and Sam felt like maybe the worst was over. Dean had seemed a little happier the last few days—more at peace, somehow. Although he still seemed overly tired, and he’d developed an odd habit of talking to himself. Well, to be fair, Sam was pretty sure he was talking to Cas. Not that that was so odd; heck, he’d talked to Jess for quite a while after she died. And Sam knew that Dean had often prayed to Cas before. But this was different; these conversations were distinctly _not_ one-sided.

Dean had also begun to read out loud—from the newspaper, from old reference books in the library, from his notes. Like the conversations, these were whispers and murmurs when Dean knew Sam was near. But Sam had walked quietly and stealthily since he was small, and all 6’4” of him could move past a room undetected on size 13 feet rather easily—especially when his brother was pre-occupied.

One day Sam brought back an Amazon package from their post office box, and Dean took it off into his room and closed the door. Late that night, Sam overheard Dean reading out loud in the kitchen. In the morning, he found the book at the table—it was a gently used copy of Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s _The Little Prince_. He turned to a dog-eared page and read the line of text that someone—Dean?—had underlined.

_It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye._

***

“Dean, why won’t you tell me what happened?” Castiel pled for the tenth time. Dean could feel the angel’s presence on the dock behind him like a prickling of static. It was so much stronger now than at first—but still not strong _enough_ , he knew. Somehow, he knew.

Dean stood up and turned to his friend. “You’ll know in time, Cas. Isn’t that how it works? When the time is right?”

“You would say that’s bullshit,” Cas complained. “Deterministic bullshit, I believe.”

“It’s just the way it is, buddy. I told you—I can’t for the life of me remember when I’m with you.”

“I am tired of these secrets. You said we’re done keeping secrets; we’re done lying to each other. Yet we continue. Are we really protecting each other? How can hiding the truth truly be helpful?”

Dean felt something stir deep inside him and he clenched his fists, the very sky in his dream starting to darken with thunderclouds. “Don’t talk to _me_ about secrets, Cas. You lied to me, too. You lied about the Heaven’s Gate. _Fever_ my ass. I know we opened that gate together—I found the goddamn hickeys to prove it! But I can’t remember doing that either, and I’m guessing you have something to do with that. Or maybe it’s my damn fool _soul_ jerking me around—the dude you keep talking about like we’re having a threesome.”

They stood there on the dock, glaring at each other, for what seemed an inordinately long time—then Castiel’s eyes grew tender, but his mouth set in a determined line. He reached out with two fingers to touch Dean’s temple, and…

Dean awoke, disoriented, and gazed around wide-eyed in the dark. The walls and ceiling, the light and shadows, rattling air conditioner… all unfamiliar… then he remembered he was in a motel room. His chest tingled and he lifted a hand to rub it, and thought about Cas.

Opening the Heaven’s Gate with him.

Oh God.

The lost memories flashed and darted like colorful fish just below the waves, enticing, and he dove into the uncharted waters and swam deep. He remembered! It was all there just under the surface—the trip to the cabin, the trepidation and awkwardness, the tentative first touches and soft kisses. Cas had been so eager, and it took Dean awhile to get over himself, but their sex had been so _good—_ alternately playful and tender, curious and exploratory, rough and passionate. It was fun to discover what made Cas hot; and he couldn’t imagine anything sexier than the sight of Cas sucking his dick, gazing up at him so adoringly…

Dean’s hand reached down to find his half-hard cock.

Then there was the mind-blowing memory of Castiel _himself—_ the monstrously lovely, awe-inspiring being who had rescued him from Hell, become his best buddy… and given him a blow job. Dean could hardly reconcile the memory of the alien creature he’d seen with the Cas he knew. Was his friend the gigantic flying lion covered in eyes whose voice shattered gas station windows—or the quiet, handsome man with a sexy mouth and big blue eyes who liked sugary coffee and Netflix? How had a Seraph crammed himself into a human form, and why did he choose to stay in one—with Dean?

But Cas wasn’t with Dean anymore—he was gone. Wasn’t he? For the umpteenth time, his mind told him he was crazy—he’d seen Cas die, and put him in the ground, and maybe this time he wasn’t coming back. But his heart kept telling him otherwise, and _something_ was making his chest warm and tingly, and _something_ was sending him images and thoughts and dreams… right? It felt like his angel was still with him, and he so wanted to believe it was true, even if he didn’t understand how. But maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe his grief over Mom and Cas was making him hallucinate, or maybe he was really sick because he’d never felt so weak and bone-tired for so long—or maybe, worst of all, he was really going crazy.

These memories—they couldn’t be real, could they? Had Cas closed and now re-opened some door in his head? Why?

It all felt like too much, and tears filled Dean’s eyes and welled over; the wetness slid down his temples and into his hair. “Cas,” he moaned, “I’m losing my fucking mind. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know. Please… I gotta know if all this is real…”

He laid there for some time, weeping quietly in despair, until he realized there was something strange happening, something nudging at his consciousness. His lips felt warm and tingly, flushed with blood and a little sore, as if he’d been kissed hard. He smacked them together, then he licked them, and got the distinct impression of another mouth against his. He blinked away his tears, intrigued.

Nerve endings all the way down his neck lit up; the hair on his arms stood on end. Coolness flowed across his nipples—despite the fact that he wore a shirt—and they pebbled up, erect and sensitive. He lifted his left hand to caress one through the material; the touch felt like a warm, wet mouth closing over his breast, and he sucked in a surprised breath. The gentle stimulation of his left nipple sent soft pulses of electricity through him, and his dick awoke again and began to swell.

_What the hell?_ Was he doing this to _himself_? He’d heard about succubi, but this… this couldn’t be a demon… could it? Seemingly in answer to his question, the center of his chest suddenly flooded with warmth—with _love_ —and every trace of anxiety and grief departed. He knew this presence—it was Cas. He remembered now what it was like to be with Castiel in Hell—to be _inside_ Cas, lifted, transported, and held safely by his Grace, close to his angelic heart. It felt like this.

“Cas,” he whispered, wide-eyed—then his eyes grew even wider, as sweet warmth filled his pelvis, too. His cock grew heavy in his hand, and an image flashed across his mind—was it memory or vision? Cas naked between his legs, stroking him, smiling down at him, and gently nudging him into surrender. The sound of his own groan filled his ears and he drew his knees apart, offering himself without hesitation.

Dean gasped and arched his back as his prostate gland exploded with sensation, sending a shock wave of heat and ecstasy through him. It happened again… and again... the feeling growing in intensity. He whimpered, toes curling, breath coming faster, and his mind supplied the appropriate scenario: he was being held tight, filled, fucked. He couldn’t move and he didn’t care; his balls drew up and his cock dribbled pre-cum over his clenching hand and it was so…

“So good… oh, God, Cas… so good…” he breathed, trembling. He was getting close…

There was a loud thump against the motel room door—the sound of a heavy body landing hard—and a rattling of a key in the knob.

Dean froze, blinking, his mind and body reluctant to leave behind the best wet dream ever. Then Sam spilled into the room. Panting and grunting, his brother slammed and bolted the door and stumbled for the bathroom.

Dean hadn’t even realized Sam was still out. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, glancing at the clock—2:37 am. The bathroom light came on, and he heard Sam groan.

Alarmed, he propelled himself off the bed and nearly fell, staggering against the TV set and barely making the bathroom door. “Sammy? What is it? Shit!”

Sam was leaning up against the shower door, gory hands clamping a hand towel to his thigh. His jeans were soaked in blood. He looked up, wild-eyed. “Might have to call 911,” he said breathlessly.

“What the hell happened?”

“Demon jumped me in the parking lot, ranting about Jack,” Sam answered. “We got into a knife fight. I won.”

“Jesus… I’d hate to see the other guy. Here, sit down,” Dean guided him to perch on the toilet seat, realizing as he did so that Sam was right—this was looking like an actual emergency. Blood was rapidly soaking the towel—the knife had likely nicked an artery. Dean darted back into the room for his phone and called an ambulance, adrenalin beginning to pump. This would NOT be the night he lost his little brother—and not to a knife stick from some skanky lowlife demon.

By the time he hung up on the dispatcher, Sam was beginning to look pale and shocky. “Hey,” Dean said to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, “stay with me. Keep that pressure on.”

“Dean, we should go,” Sam suddenly insisted. “We can’t stay here—there could be more of them.”

“Ambulance is coming, man. We’re going to the hospital. You just sit tight.” Dean scurried back into the room to find his pistol and the demon-killing knife, which Sam had dropped into the sink just outside the bathroom door. No black-eyed ambulance attendants would be taking _him_ by surprise tonight.

Sam swayed a little as Dean came back through the door again, and he grabbed his brother to steady him. “Whoa… you ok? Damn…” Sam was in a cold sweat, the towel was now completely soaked in blood, and Dean started to freak out a little. This couldn’t happen… it _couldn’t_ … He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, to hold back his emotion. Tears stung behind his eyes. His fortitude these days was a very thin veneer, and this was already more than enough to crack it.

He did the only thing he knew to do—he grabbed another clean towel and helped his brother switch it out, then moved Sam’s shaking hands and pressed down with all his might on the wound, willing the flow to slow. The tingling in his chest intensified, but he paid it no heed. He squeezed his eyes shut…

And when he opened them again, Sam was gaping at him like he’d just grown another head.

“Dude, what?” he blurted, his heart skipping a beat. “You ok?”

“Dean, what _was_ that?” Sam looked truly astonished. “What did you just do?”

Dean scowled, not understanding… but he noticed that the color was starting to return to Sam’s face. Sam grabbed his hands and tried to pull them away from the wound.

“Hey, don’t…”

“It stopped hurting… you just… something _happened_ …”  Sam babbled.

“Whadda you mean something happened? _What_ happened?”

“Let’s see for a sec…” Sam tugged and Dean reluctantly lifted his palms, and they peeled the towel away—then ripped Sam’s bloody jeans open—to reveal a neat pink scar where the gaping slash had been.

“Holy shit!” Sam cried. He jumped to his feet and dropped trou, and they both stared at the thigh that a moment ago had been spouting blood like Old Faithful. “ _You did that_ Dean—you just _healed_ me.”

“No way…” Dean muttered wonderingly. He put a hand to his chest, but the tingling was gone. He could hear the siren of the approaching ambulance.

“How the hell did you do that? Dude, I feel totally fine now!”

“I didn’t do it,” Dean heard himself say, “Cas did.”

Sam’s eyebrows arched, and Dean could tell he was making an effort NOT to make a bitchface. “ _Cas_ did it… so Cas is _here_?” he said slowly.

Dean scowled. “Don’t fuckin’ patronize me, man. I may be a little nuts right now but I ain’t _crazy_. Yeah, Cas is here—he’s… _here.”_ Dean thumped his chest. “Inside my meatsuit. Don’t even ask me how, or even how I know. Just trust me, ‘cause I…”

Dean had to grab onto the sink all of a sudden to steady himself; the room began to swim a little. Red and white lights lit up the parking lot outside, flashing through the cheap curtains. He turned around to look.

“What are we gonna tell them?” Sam asked.

“I’ll get rid of ‘em,” Dean offered. “Stay here.” He started into the motel room to unlock the door, but was immediately overtaken with a wave of nausea and dizziness. He staggered against the bed, managing to stay upright, but then tripped on his own feet and tumbled to the floor. He heard Sam’s voice behind him, sounding concerned, but he heard it as if he were sinking underwater. He couldn’t understand the words. The door—he was trying to get to the door. Someone was knocking. He dragged himself upright on a chair and reached for the knob, opening up to the EMTs standing outside.

“Sir, what’s your emergency?” the woman said, and Dean stayed upright just long enough to reply, “Think I’m gonna pass out…” before he crumpled to the floor and fell headfirst into a deep, dark sleep.

 

***

Notes: OK, so I said I was going to end this at the last chapter, 'cause I got busy and was  _done..._ but then they ended the season with Castiel's death, and I got the itch again, and I thought, why not tack on some more chapters here - since nobody including me really liked the way I ended things. So here you go! I've got another chapter or so to do. Let me know if you like it! Thanks for reading


	10. Almost Hear You Sigh

Sam slipped the last quarter into the machine, hearing it clatter and clunk down into the depths, then a moment later, the sound of bitter, hot coffee pissing into a paper cup behind the little plastic door. He sighed, leaning his head against the cool metal of the vending machine, waiting for the cup to fill. He’d lost count of how many cups of this hospital dreck he had downed, but it kept him awake and gave him a reason to get up and leave the room for a while—the room where Dean lay seemingly comatose for the last three days, for no discernable medical reason.

The doctors had poked and prodded his brother, taken vials of blood, sent him through the MRI machine, hooked him up to IVs; now they wanted to discuss a feeding tube. This was beginning to feel like déjà vu all over again—only Dad wasn’t here to sell his soul this time.

Sam had gone over and over it in his mind and racked his brain to recall anything in the lore that would explain it all: Dean’s strange behavior in the bunker; the way his brother had miraculously healed his leg in the motel room; and Dean’s proclamation that Castiel was somehow _inside_ him— _in my meatsuit,_ he’d said. And what Jack, the Nephilim, had called Dean as he knelt by Castiel’s dead body— _angel eater._ It would seem that _something_ was inside Dean, and Sam had to believe it was Cas. Or some part of Cas. Had Dean unwittingly absorbed Castiel’s dying energy? Or deliberately captured it?

And why, most importantly, was Dean apparently dying now, too?

***

The chapel on the first floor was cool, dim and empty, and Sam slipped into the second row with his cup of coffee and sat down. Resting the cup on his leg, he closed his bleary eyes for a moment and tried to still his thoughts.

He never noticed the woman enter the room; what alerted him to her presence was the whisper of fabric as her skirt brushed against the chair beside him, and she sat down. He startled, blinking down at her, and she smiled at him gently. She was young—perhaps in her late 20s—and wore her soft brown hair in a messy bun. Big silver hoops hung from her ears and a silver cross adorned her throat.

“I’m sorry to startle you,” she said, “but I think I have a message for you.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and he sat up a little straighter. A quick mental inventory told him his closest knife was in his boot. “A message? From who?”

“Someone close to you. I believe it’s a brother.”

Sam stood up. “My brother… is he awake? Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I… my name’s Annie…” the woman got to her feet and extended her hand to him, “… I’m a psychic medium. And an anesthetist—on call today.”

Sam took her hand cautiously, and they sat back down, not breaking eye contact. Her fingers felt warm, and squeezed his gently. Her eyes shone, dark and lovely in the dim light.

He suddenly felt like crying.

She must have read it on his face. “It’s going to be ok,” she said earnestly. “Your brother’s alright; he’s still with us. D… your brother… I’m getting a D…”

Sam nodded.

“He wants you to know it’s going to be ok. He just needs some time.”

“Time to do _what?”_ Sam blurted. “I don’t understand—no one knows what’s going on with him.”

Annie closed her eyes. “He… he’s showing me two cars.”

_“Cars?”_ Sam echoed, growing more confused by the minute.

“One is a black muscle car and the other looks like a big, gold Continental. They’re facing each other and… oh, I see… their hoods are up and there are battery cables connected. The black car is giving the gold car a jump. Its battery is nearly dead.” Annie opened her eyes and gazed at him intently. “Does that make sense to you?”

It only took a moment for the vision to click, and Sam couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. “Geez, that… that would be Dean. And yeah, that makes complete sense.” Sam began to get excited now; finally some information he could work with. “So he’s trying to help Cas. But why is it sucking the life out of him? And what happened to Cas? How did he get…”

“Hold on,” she laughed, “one question at a time.”

She closed her eyes again, still holding fast to Sam’s hand while he leaned forward eagerly.

“He’s showing me… I’m sorry, I don’t understand car parts…” She frowned for a moment, then continued, “I see an alternator light on the dashboard of the black car. I see… so its battery is being drained, even though it’s running. The gold car is taking a lot of power.” Annie looked up at Sam. “So Dean is the black car—and Cas is the gold one?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“He says not to worry about him. He’ll get his juice back soon. Three more days, he thinks. Do you see?”

Sam dared to feel a trickle of relief. “OK. So, hang on three more days. And so… so what about Cas? Ask him what’s happening to Cas.”

Annie concentrated, frowning a bit into the middle distance. “I see a kangaroo—it has a baby in its pouch.”

“Seriously?”

“Your brother is very visual. He’s telling you he’s carrying this Cas around. I see a gun in a holster. A wallet in a pocket. Do you get it?”

“Yeah, but I don’t understand how. Cas isn’t _possessing_ him… and we saw him _die.”_

Annie raised an eyebrow. “Are we talking about two humans here?”

Sam sighed. “No… Cas is…”

“An angel.”

“Yeah… yes…” it felt like they were getting somewhere. “So please, just ask him—how did this happen?”

Annie closed her eyes once again, and was silent for a few moments. Sam waited with bated breath.

“Well,” she finally said wonderingly, eyes still shut, “if I’m understanding what he’s trying to show me, it’s as though Castiel exploded into a million tiny fragments, like a meteorite falling to earth—and Dean was able to catch a few of them, because… because he has a magnet…”

***

That night, Sam dreamed of the time, when they were children, that Dean stood on a motel bed and tore open a feather pillow. The feathers flew everywhere in a beautiful, downy explosion, and Sam, laughing, grabbed as many as he could before they floated to the dirty floor.

***

After once again draining the dregs of his tiny cup of grace healing Sam, Castiel was strictly forbidden for what seemed like years from entering into Dean’s dreams again—or interacting with the outside world at all. The angel had weakened himself to the point of nearly vanishing once more—though he could not find it in himself to be sorry for saving Sam—and Dean’s soul was now keeping him on a very tight leash, metaphorically speaking. While it was vexing to be so sedentary, he penitently forebore it, because it was far worse knowing that Dean’s energy wavered and his body grew incapacitated because of him. His friend was pouring every ounce of energy he had into re-building Castiel’s grace one final time, and there could be no more setbacks; Dean had little more left to give.

Feeling Dean spend himself in this way made Castiel feel terribly sad and guilty, when he had the energy to feel anything. Such human feelings—why did they persist in his disembodied state? When the emotions became too intense, and Dean too weak to soothe him, he was only able to achieve calm by reminding himself that he had accomplished one very important task before his “death”—he, a fallen seraph, had slain Lucifer the archangel, Satan, the great enemy of God and mankind. He could picture his brother’s face, see the light leave his eyes as he died. Perhaps, he told himself, that one act could redeem him before God and heaven and erase his many sins. Perhaps, he told himself, in some small way he now deserved to live.

On the day that Dean’s soul allowed him to hear the medium speaking to Sam, Castiel was overjoyed. _Three more days._ He felt a ripple of excitement, for the first time since… whatever it was that had happened. He queried Dean— _what will occur on the third day?_

Dean stroked him tenderly. _You’ll be a free bird, Tinkerbell,_ came the answer from Dean’s soul, which Cas heard in Dean’s earthly voice—a surprising gift that made him fairly glow with pleasure. _But first you’ve gotta prepare Peter Pan._

_***_

Dean was throwing a party on Lost Lake. Castiel stood on the dock in the darkness and watched. The small cabin glowed cheerily, and he could see people inside. Some of them he recognized; there was Ellen, making drinks, and Bobby asking for another whiskey. Dean sat outside by the bonfire, pulling beer bottles from the old green cooler and handing one to Charlie, and another to Kevin. Sam sprawled on a bench, gazing at the flames, which Castiel found unnerving for a moment until he realized that Jody Mills was there too, talking with Mary Winchester and laughing.

Dean looked so happy that Castiel hated to interrupt, but he reasoned that he would be welcome at this dream gathering, and it would be more easily entered than one of his chaotic nightmare monster hunts. He steeled himself and strode up the dock and into the yard, coming at last into the glowing circle of light around the fire. Dean looked up from his camp chair, and his smile turned into a delighted grin.

“Cas! Hey, everybody, Cas is here!” Dean jumped up and came around the fire pit to wrap Castiel in a friendly bear hug. The angel wished dearly that he could feel it, but he returned the embrace nonetheless.

“Dean,” he said earnestly, “we need to talk.”

“Sure, buddy,” Dean said, pulling away and grabbing another chair for Cas. “Cop a squat.”

“No…” Castiel followed him and took him gently by the elbow, “…out here on the dock—alone.”

Then they were standing on the dock together, starlight and the glow of the party reflected off the glassy lake.

Dean stared at him hard, his eyes glinting in the darkness. “Cas… hold on… is this real?”

“We are real,” Castiel replied, sorry to burst Dean’s bubble. “The party is a dream.”

Suddenly the sounds of merriment faded, and the cabin’s lights winked out as Dean’s guests vanished into the ether.

“Huh…” Dean said. “I kinda suspected.” He looked up at the dream sky, the corners of his mouth turned down. “So are you dreamwalking me again, Cas? I don’t see you in like, forever, and then you just come crash my head and ruin my party?” He turned back to the angel and scowled. “Where the hell have you been?”

“You’ve been sleeping a long time, Dean. I’m sorry to say it’s because of me—because your soul has used every ounce of your energy healing me. But now I’m well enough to leave you, and…”

“Leave me? Like hell you’re leaving again! You just got here!”

“And I can’t stay long.” Castiel laid a hand on Dean’s arm, wishing once again that he could actually touch his friend. _Soon_ , he counseled himself. “Listen now—you’ll wake up soon, and when you do, you’ll give Sam this address: 22567 Elkhart Road, Goshen, Indiana. Tell him to take you there right away. Understand?”

“Why? What the hell’s in Goshen, Indiana?”

“My next vessel.”

***

It was hard to separate dreaming from waking anymore, as both realities seemed equally bizarre. Dean slouched uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the Impala as they hurtled east out of Kearney on I-80, hell-bent for Indiana. He looked over at Sam, his face lit by the dim glow of the dashboard. “Where’d I say again?” he croaked. His throat still hurt from the tubes.

“Goshen,” Sam replied. “You said Goshen, Indiana. Amish country.”

Dean grunted, tried to sit up straighter. He could feel every spring in the goddamn seat.

“Why don’t you just lie down in the back?” Sam said gently, glancing over at him.

“Sick ‘o lyin’ down,” Dean rasped. “All I do anymore.”

Sam sighed. “I don’t know what you’re gonna do when we get to Goshen. You can barely walk, Dean. They wanted to send you to rehab. You’re a mess.”

“Fuck rehab. Cas’ll fix me.”

Sam scowled at the windshield, and handed Dean the throat lozenges again. “I sure as hell hope so.”

Dean turned and stared out the window again; they’d passed the city limits, and the starry sky arched over dark fields of stubble, stretching as far as the eye could see. Behind them the sunset colors had faded into indigo. He pressed his hand to his chest and closed his eyes, turning inward, feeling the soft and familiar thrum of warmth behind his sternum that answered his unspoken query.

_Are you there?_

Cas was there alright, but he seemed to be strangely restless. Dean wasn’t sure what would happen in Goshen, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand the images that Cas seemed to be sending him, startling and uninvited.

Sam said he’d woken up suddenly this afternoon mumbling an address, and demanding to be taken there, though he didn’t know why. Of course, Sam had spirited him out of the hospital during a shift change, and now they were off to find out.

Sam told him what the medium had said, about how he was like a magnet for Castiel’s splintered grace—that he’d somehow captured and absorbed pieces of it at the angel’s death. That he had spent a lot of energy rebuilding it, and had gone down trying to recharge it again after Sam’s healing.

Sam had a theory, of course, after having had Gadreel inside him. They both knew that angels left behind a signature of their former presence: a piece of their grace. Sam thought Dean’s little sliver of Castiel—leftover from his resurrection from Hell—had acted like a powerful magnet to save the angel. Even if it had only captured tiny fragments of angelic matter, that was enough; Sam knew from prior research that angels are holographic—every particle containing the whole—and only need a small critical mass of grace to function.

It all seemed to make sense to Dean one minute, and the next minute his head was spinning again. He just wanted to go back to the bunker and curl up in his bed—curl around the gentle presence inside him that felt so comforting, and go back to sleep. Cas, however, wasn’t about to let him play Rip Van Winkle again.

Visions of their time together at the cabin kept flashing before his mind’s eye—visions he’d barely begun to process. He was having super-hot sex with Cas—as in cage-match, WWF, Wrestlemania sex—and Cas began to come, and something inside Dean snapped, and all Heaven brook loose as they opened the Gate. Then, apropos of nothing, he saw himself with a girl. A young woman with freckles, serious eyes and a wide, lovely mouth. The way she looked at him—he felt that Castiel inhabited her. And he was laying her down, unbuttoning his fly…

“He wants us to bump uglies again,” Dean blurted, surprising himself.

“He wha.. _Oh_ … So he wants to open another Heaven’s Gate,” Sam said slowly and thoughtfully. “Smart.” As if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“He’s gonna be riding a _chick_ ,” Dean emphasized.

“Yeah?” Sam looked over at him, and his earnest face pulled into a frown. “Wait, _he’s_ gonna be riding a chick, or _you’re_ gonna be riding a chick?”

“Both!”

“So he’s gonna hop inside a woman? Dude, why are you not happy?”

“Dude… A. I’d need a truckload of Viagra right now to even get it up, and B. Cas is not a chick!”

“Well Cas has _been_ a chick before. Why not again? What’s the problem? Suddenly you don’t like women?”

“That ain’t the point! It’s _Cas_ , and I… he…”

“You want the old Cas back…”

“Don’t _you?”_

“Well maybe if we can juice him up again, then…”

Who’s _we?”_

“…then you can get the old Cas back, Dean.”

***

By the time they rolled into Goshen at 3:14 a.m., sex with anybody was the last thing on Dean’s mind. He’d eaten half the carton of soup that Sam had bought him at a gas station, and his stomach was gurgling ominously. Every bone in his body ached, and his head felt like a pickaxe might be embedded in his left temple. The soft comforting hum in his chest had become a static buzz that made him feel edgy and caffeinated, even though he was exhausted.

Most concerning of all, he’d come to the conclusion that he couldn’t let Cas go. Not yet. Not to play dress-up with some strange girl and have another setback on _his_ account. He’d had several hours to think about it, and he’d decided that Cas was only pretending to be ready to leave him, because he couldn’t bear to see Dean suffer, and he didn’t want to be a parasite anymore. Well—suffering was Dean’s middle name. And if Cas didn’t have enough mojo to fix Dean from inside, then how could he possibly possess another vessel? Dean had endured far worse than this, and he’d do whatever it took and give whatever he had left to keep his angel safe until Cas was ready to survive on his own—and fix his _old_ vessel.

How to tell Sam that this nine-hour drive had been a fool’s errand—that would be the trick.

The car slowed and stopped in front of a neat farmhouse set back from the road with a mailbox out front; the numbers said 22567. The rural road lay dark and quiet; a barn stood silhouetted against the starry sky about a hundred yards away.

Sam cut the engine and heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, here we are,” he said into the silence. Dean heard the seat creak as Sam shifted to look at him. “Wow… you look like shit even in the dark.”

“Thanks, bitch,” Dean grumbled, rubbing at his sternum. He stared up the dark house. The buzzing in his chest was intensifying; it felt like a swarm of flies now. Or maybe a hive of angry bees. The warmth was growing warmer. Dean could feel Sam’s eyes on him.

“What do you want to do, Dean?”

“I wanna turn around and go home,” Dean mumbled, sounding more petulant than he’d intended. “This is a waste of time.”

Suddenly, the swarm in his chest _pulsed_ ; his heart skipped a beat, his insides convulsed, and he tasted bile.

“Hey… you ok?” his brother queried.

Dean grimaced, swallowed hard. “Peachy,” he croaked. He grabbed onto the door handle, and again his chest throbbed, his stomach contracting. He clenched his jaw. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he muttered lowly through his teeth. “You’re NOT going!”

“What?”

“I SAID,” Dean ground out, jaw still closed, “CAS. IS. NOT. READY.” The stomach cramp that followed doubled him over, and he threw up a little into his mouth.

Sam swung the driver-side door open and jogged around the car, yanking Dean’s door open and half-dragging him out onto the lawn. “C’mon, man, if you’re gonna puke…”

Trembling, Dean knelt on the grass, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. His chest grew hot, and it buzzed and fluttered and throbbed. It felt like a swarm of bats battering themselves rhythmically against his ribcage. His gut twisted painfully, making him whimper, but he refused to open his mouth. That damn angel would have to crawl out his nose, he thought—then wondered if that might actually happen.

Meanwhile, Sam was crouching next to him, anxiously pummeling him with questions.

“Dean, what the hell? Are you sick? Was it the soup? Dean—hey, talk to me. Jesus… are you having a heart attack or something?”

Sam wouldn’t stop touching him nor would he shut-up, and when Dean finally, in frustration, croaked out “NO!” he realized his mistake—too late. A fiery heat rocketed up his gullet and he gagged and hurled up an angel.

“Whoa!” Sam cried, scuttling back, _“Is that Cas?!”_

The dazzling little ball of white radiance hovered before Dean’s sweaty face and streaming eyes for a moment, as if uncertain, then spun and zoomed toward the farmhouse.

“No!” Dean cried in desperation, his voice breaking. “Cas, come back!”

 

_** Hi! Desperately trying to finish this story, which seems to have a mind of its own, before the season premiere. Still with me? I’ve got at least one more chapter to go to wrap up. Leave me a comment, please!_


	11. Jumpin' Jack Flash

Abigail lay in bed blinking at the ceiling, listening for the voices in the yard. Someone had cried out in the darkness, waking her—and one of the roosters as well. She heard the sleepy bird crow again from the coop, but the voices had gone quiet. She really didn’t want to get up and look out the window—her bed felt too comfortable. Perhaps Luke and Andy were outside; she hoped there wasn’t a problem in the goat pen again.

She sighed, closing her eyes, and realized she’d been having a very strange dream—the same dream she’d had for several nights now, actually. In it, the angel Castiel had returned, and she needed Abby’s help. _What can I do?_ Abby would ask each time, and in reply, the angel brought forward a man. _I need your body to love him,_ the angel said. Abigail understood that Castiel and the man were both sick, in a sense. Somehow, the angel wanted to make them both well. _Please say yes,_ the angel pled. _You will save the life of an angel and a very special man—special to all the world and to God himself._

_Special to you, too? Abigail asked._

_Yes, Castiel replied, almost shyly—if that were possible for an angel._

_And what will happen to me?_ Abigail wanted to know, even though she was ashamed of herself for being so selfish before a servant of God. _I’m to be married soon._

 _I have made rash promises in the past,_ Castiel replied gently. _But I will do my best to return you to your family unharmed, and with your virginity restored… if that’s what you wish._

_You can do that?_

_I can do much more—you know that. If you say yes, I will be in your debt. Forever after, Abigail, I will come when you call._

Abby had told herself it was just a dream, but what if it wasn’t? Night after night, the vision seemed to grow more powerful.  _I need your body to love him,_ Castiel had said. She assumed that meant sex. Why would an angel need or want to have sex with a man? How would that restore either of them? And what made that man so special to God and angels—and the world?

She didn’t dare tell anyone about the dream; her father and her aunt would tell her it was of the devil—not of angels. But she knew in her heart—she could _feel_ —that her visiting angel was good and kind, and only wished to do right.

She thought about Castiel’s first visit—when she was only ten. She had woken one night to see the beautiful creature standing at her bedside. _Don’t be afraid,_ the angel said—and Abby wasn’t. She was too busy being amazed by its many lovely faces, enormous wings, and the way its body blazed, brilliant as lightning. She couldn’t understand how she could stare at something that shone so brightly—just like the sun.

The angel spoke to her in a voice that she still could not begin to describe. _You’re a very special human—an angelic vessel. I am an Angel of the Lord seeking a vessel to use, to help guide a righteous man to his destiny. If I should need you, will you let me in?_

“Are you really an angel?” she asked, enthralled.

_Yes, I am. I will prove it to you. What would you most like to do?_

Sitting up, she felt her knee bump the copy of _Peter Pan_ she had tucked beneath the bedcovers with her. She knew immediately what to request.

“Can you make me fly?” she asked breathlessly, “Like Wendy Darling?”

 _I am unfamiliar with Wendy Darling_ , the angel replied, _but you may certainly fly._

Grinning from ear to ear, heart in her throat, she did not hesitate. Tossing aside the covers, she leapt from the bed, ran straight to her second-story window, flung open the sash and the screen, and jumped.

Then flew.

She soared like a joyful bird around the yard, in ever-widening circles, flying over treetops and roofs, their barn and their home, the carriage house, the shed. She could see deer in the neighbor’s fields and geese sleeping on their farm pond, the lights on a hundred wind turbines, and off to the west, a freight train lumbering towards Gary. The breeze billowing through her nightgown was chilly, but she felt no cold. She could have circled farther and higher until she touched the moon, but eventually she felt Castiel beside her, shepherding her toward a nearby tree. They hovered near the top, Abby’s toes tickling the uppermost leaves.

 _Reach down,_ Castiel told her, _and take a flower. You will see it in the morning and remember me. Consider my request, and I will return soon._

Abigail reached down and plucked a blossom from the top of the big tulip tree by the road, which had just begun to bloom.

That creamy yellow flower lasted a long time in a glass of water by her bedside—long after Castiel had appeared to her again to tell her that the angel had found a more suitable adult vessel, and would not be needing her this time.

 _There may come a time,_ Castiel told her, _when I may yet have need of your physical form. Someday I may return to you. You will remember me. Until then, live well, Abigail._

So these dreams… did they mean the angel would soon return?

Now that she’d been awake for a moment or two, she needed to relieve herself. Throwing back the covers, Abby slid out of bed and started for the door, but then stepped to the window, out of curiosity. Beneath the tulip tree, a shiny black car glinted in the moonlight and a man was kneeling in the grass; another man crouched at his side, apparently trying to help him. They must have been the ones shouting—a couple of drunken English from town, no doubt. But there was something about them…

Abigail pictured herself flying from the window—a vision she’d relived so many times since that magical night—flying down to greet the two men. Would they take her on an adventure? She snorted at her own silliness. “Are you my Lost Boys…?” she murmured with a smirk.

She turned from the window, still smiling—and stopped dead in her tracks. There, in her bedroom, floating in front of her face, was a tiny ball of lightning. She blinked, frozen, too amazed to be frightened. The ball remained stationary, hovering before her, a lovely little sun the size of a hen’s egg.

“What _are_ you?” she whispered. “How did you get in here?”

She hadn’t exactly expected an answer, but she heard one—inside her head. _I’m the angel Castiel. I’ve been visiting you in dreams, Abigail, and I’ve returned to you because I need you. Please help me. Please say yes._

Abby thought about the dreams. She thought about Jacob, her betrothed, whom she could barely picture herself having sex with, and about the man outside the window… whom she was guessing Castiel intended to have sex with. She thought about how many nights she’d lain in bed, gazing out that window, wondering if the angel would return for her. She’d never guessed it would be for _this._ Was this the way she was intended to serve God and man? Perhaps there was only one way to find out…

***

Sam crouched beside Dean in the damp grass, holding his shoulders, realizing that his brother had come to the frayed end of his rope. It wasn’t the first time, of course, but there was always the fear that it might be the last. Dean was so weak—his bony shoulders trembled under Sam’s hands as he knelt on the ground. He had refused to move or to get back into the warm car; he couldn’t take his eyes off the door that Castiel had vanished through.

Under his breath, he muttered a litany of angst… “The fuck was he thinking? What if he needs us? How’re we gonna know? The fuck’s taking so long? Dammit, Cas…”

Sam tried to soothe him. “It’s ok, Dean. It’s only been like eight minutes. He didn’t tell us what to expect. Come on, let’s wait in the car…”

Of course, Sam had his own misgivings about the situation. Were they really about to kidnap an Amish woman so Cas could possess her and Dean could have sex with her? In what world was that actually ok?

Suddenly, Dean gasped, and Sam looked up. The farmhouse door stood open, and a figure in a white nightgown appeared on the porch. It was a girl—a tall, athletic-looking girl with wavy auburn hair, who now approached them with long strides across the yard. Dean began struggling to stand and Sam helped pull him to his feet.

“Oh no… no, no, no… I’m not drunk enough for this… Oh God, she’s a kid. She’s just a kid…” Dean moaned.

But as she drew closer Sam could see that she was no child, but a young woman, with a wide, lovely mouth and soulful eyes. Her feet were bare and wet with dew, but she had a man’s shirt thrown over her nightgown—and a determined look in her eye. She walked directly up to them, chin held high, and stopped before them, arms at her sides.

“Cas…?” Dean breathed, shivering, and Sam tightened the arm slung around him, feeling protective. He really had no idea what to expect, but he didn’t want to reveal any anxiety; he had to be the strong one at the moment. He also didn’t want anybody jerking his grieving brother around even a tiny bit.

“My name is Abigail,” the woman said. “You must be Dean.” She turned her gaze to Sam. “And you’re Sam?”

“Where’s Cas?” Dean pled, not a little desperately.

“Here, I believe,” Abigail said, laying a pale hand over her heart. “Castiel is right here.” She looked from Dean to Sam and back again, her eyes glistening in the moonlight, and smiled a little. She had to be freaked out on some level, but here she was trying to reassure _them_. Sam liked her already. “Castiel says I’m to go with you. She trusts you—so I’m trusting you too.”

Sam glanced at Dean, to see his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He chose to ignore the strange pronoun and offered a gentle smile, extending his hand to the woman. “We appreciate your kindness,” he said. “Sorry for dragging you out of bed in the middle of the night, but it’s kind of an emergency. My brother’s in a bad way and Cas isn’t much better. We need your help, I’m told.”

“Well, then,” she said, “we should go.”

***

Dean was trying not to hate her—he really was. None of this was her fault, and she was being kind—weirdly kind, he thought—even offering to sit in the back seat with Dean, when Sam had invited her to ride shotgun. He slumped against the car door, staring out the window, deliberately NOT looking at her. He was being ridiculous, he knew, but he couldn’t help the desperate angst, the bitter jealousy, the anger that was coursing through him. Castiel was inside of HER now, and Dean had a deep, dark, icy cavern in his chest where his angel used to lie warm and close to his heart. It hurt not to feel his best friend anymore, and it triggered all his abandonment issues, and it made him want to stab something. If this bitch did anything at all to hurt Cas…

“I don’t bite, you know,” Abigail said softly.

Dean took a deep breath. “I’m sure you don’t. But I… I stink pretty bad. Haven’t shaved or showered in days.” Then he added, maybe a little testily, “Don’t worry, I will at the motel.”

“I’m not worried. I’ve smelled worse. I do live on a farm.”

Sam snorted from the front seat, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. Dean tossed back a stink eye.

“I’ve also learned,” she said conversationally, “not to let the little things get in the way. Not to sweat the small stuff.”

Dean scowled. “Yeah?”

“My mother died two months ago from lung cancer. She never smoked. I took care of her for the past year and a half. There was a lot of that small stuff.”

Her confession landed like a kidney punch. Dean coughed a little. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured. Then he forced himself to look at her—this girl who had just given herself over inexplicably to an angel and a stranger. And here he was being a douchebag. “And I’m… I’m sorry if I’m being a jerk…”

She nodded, holding his gaze.

Something about her eyes drew him in. “My mom has been gone, too—for six weeks now—and… we buried Cas, and I… I ain’t been right.” Dean’s voice broke and he knew he shouldn’t have gone down that road, but he couldn’t help it. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with trembling fingers, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“Well, then,” Abigail replied, and Dean suddenly felt her thin, cool fingers wrap around his left hand. “We have two things in common, don’t we?”

“What?” Dean croaked.

“We both know what it’s like to lose someone special, and we both want to help Castiel.”

He nodded, a tear or two squeezing out.

“Come here, Dean,” she said gently. “Lie down. Rest your head in my lap. Castiel wants to help _you_ , too.”

Without question, Dean lay down across the back seat and pillowed his head on her thighs, warm against his cheek through her thin cotton nightgown. “Can you feel him?” he asked plaintively.

Abigail hesitated a moment. “Castiel… yes…” she said. “There’s a heat, and… a tingling or pulsing. It’s like a second heart beating inside my chest. And I’m feeling… emotions.”

“What kind of emotions?”

Dean felt her fingers slide through his dirty hair, smoothing it down. “All kinds of emotions, all whirling around,” she replied. “It’s strange. It’s hard to separate some of them. But the biggest and most powerful by far is love. _Amazing_ love. It feels like… it’s so fierce, it’s as if I can’t even get close. Have you ever seen a barn burning? It’s like a barn on fire. Flames two hundred feet tall, and heat so intense. You know that if you get too close, you’ll burst into flames yourself.”

Dean blinked into the darkness, remembering his vision of the unearthly—the true—Castiel. Remembering what it felt like to be close to him—to be subsumed by his being.

“And that love,” Abigail continued, “the _really_ amazing part is… it’s all directed at _you.”_

She laid her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, and they rode in silence for a while, Dean trying to absorb what she’d just said. It shouldn’t be a surprise—Cas had pulled him from heaven and stuck by him through thick and thin. He’d ditched _God_ and his own family for Team Free Will, trying to serve Dean, losing everything including his life (more than once) in the process. He’d been _inside_ Dean in, yes, the Biblical sense—but also the Dennis Quaid inside Martin Short in _Innersense_ sense—and even _that_ hadn’t turned him off. And heck, during that nasty business with Ramiel, he’d just come right out and told Dean “I love you.” So why was it such a shock to have a stranger confirm it?

“Dean…” Abigail said softly, and he could tell she’d been thinking too, “if the angel Castiel loves you like a barn on fire—like a _city_ on fire—tell me… if I lie down between you… will I get burned?”

***

Abigail sat in the middle of the motel bed, her knees drawn up under her nightie, and her arms wrapped around them. She still had her brother’s big blue shirt around her shoulders, but it was cool in the room—and taking it off would leave her feeling rather exposed.

She could still hear the water running in the bathroom; Dean had been in the shower for quite some time. The clock read 4:20 now, and the sliver of sky visible through the curtains was beginning to turn gray.

She had overheard Dean and his brother talking outside the door after they’d let her into the room.

_Dean, are you really gonna do this?_

_Do I have a choice?_

_Are you really asking me that? We always have a choice._

_It’s CAS, man._

_I don’t know if I’m more worried about him or her or_ you _._

_Dude, it’s just sex…_

_You know it’s more than that—it’s another Heaven’s Gate. If something comes down that ladder, you can barely lift a finger in self-defense—and who knows when Cas will put in an appearance. Right now he’s stuck inside an Amish girl who’s barely legal and probably a virgin, and we pretty much just kidnapped her. Pretty soon her family will figure out she’s gone._

_Dude, that ship has left the dock. Make your point._

_I think I need to be in the room with you._

_Oh, ‘cause THAT isn’t seven levels of creepy…_

They argued about it for several minutes, but Sam finally lost that fight. Nevertheless, he followed his brother into the motel room, looking stern, and perched on the bed where she sat while Dean disappeared into the bathroom. “Here is Dean’s phone,” he said, explaining how to use it before setting it on the nightstand. “I want you to call me if anything goes wrong or starts to seem scary. Anything at all. Don’t be afraid to call. Or come find me—I’m two doors down. If you open the Heaven’s Gate, and I’m guessing you’ll know it when that happens, read this carefully out loud—right away. It will lock the gate again.” He took a folded piece of paper from his jacket, smoothed it open, and laid it down next to the phone. Then he looked at her hard.

“You’re really prepared to have sex with my brother?”

She nodded.

“Ok, then.” He produced a couple of foil wrapped condoms and added them to the table, along with a beautiful big crystal of some sort.

Next, as she watched, he got up, took a marker from his breast pocket, and drew a couple of strange shapes on either side of the door and on the window glass. Standing back to look at his handiwork, he heaved a sigh. “It’ll have to do.”

Then he left.

It was crazy, perhaps, that she wasn’t afraid. But the angel inside her wouldn’t let her fear. Every time her thoughts began to slide toward uncertainty, anxiety, or even a little amazement at her predicament, Castiel brought her back gently—soothing her with feelings of gratitude, anticipation… and that burning, passionate devotion. Well, that latter wasn’t so much soothing as distracting… or perhaps… arousing.

Did she really want to have sex with Dean Winchester? God help her, she did.

“And you can keep my virginity,” she muttered to the angel inside her. “I don’t need it back…” She was guessing wedding-night virginity was overrated. She didn’t want sex to hurt—she wanted it to be fun. She wanted to know what to do. Was that so wrong? “In fact, please take it.”

Just then, she heard a ruckus in the bathroom—a couple of loud clangs, a rustling and a huge thump. She startled, then jumped up and ran to the door.

“Dean? Dean are you alright?” There was no answer, so she barged in to find him in the bottom of the tub, tangled in the fallen shower curtain, water still cascading down. He wasn’t moving, his eyes open and unfocused.

“Oh, Oh, my word…” Shutting off the water, she knelt down and touched his face. “Dean… Oh Dear Lord… please say you’re alright. Can you get up?”

He was breathing shallowly, and she rubbed his arms, patted his face, called his name for a few moments and finally he seemed to respond.

“Can’t feel my legs,” he croaked. “I can’t move. Oh, God, I can’t… I can’t move.”

***

There was no way he was going out like this. Yeah, he’d always heard that more people die from falls in the bathtub than, say, lightning strikes—but that was useless trivia. Who under the age of 80 falls in the bathtub? Him, apparently. Now he couldn’t feel his legs and he couldn’t stop shaking, and this girl was looking down at him lying there naked but for the plastic shower curtain, like some old junky wrapped in a tarp. Like some kind of paraplegic burrito.

He would laugh if he wasn’t so terrified, and wracked with pain.

“This ain’t happening,” he panted. “Fuck… Sam… get Sam…”

Wide-eyed, Abigail jumped up and turned to leave him, but he suddenly couldn’t bear to let her go. “No, wait! C-come back. Sam will call 911 and I can’t… no hospitals… shit…”

She turned back to him, glanced around the room, and grabbed the pile of towels off the rack, “Here,” she said, her voice trembling, as she tucked the towels over and around him, trying to dry and warm him, “it’s going to be ok. But I need to get help.” She lifted his hand between hers and squeezed. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t go,” he groaned, “I don’t need a damn ambulance. I need Cas. Dammit, I need Cas.”

Abigail stopped in the doorway as if she’d hit an invisible forcefield, and stood for a moment with her back turned to him. He watched her hand lift slowly to her breastbone. Cas was there, so close, but yet so far away. And Cas needed him, too. Dean had never felt quite so helpless.

“I know… I know. You’re right,” she said softly, turning back to him. “We should trust first in God and his angels. We should say a prayer.” She returned to his side, looking pale, and dropped to her knees beside the tub. Grabbing his hand again, she took a deep, steadying breath. “O Lord in Heaven…”

 _Not so much,_ Dean thought, but he tried to follow her voice as she prayed, tried to let it anchor him. She sounded so honest, so eager—how could her prayers NOT be answered? How could he not join in?

“… and your angel, Castiel, needs you too. Castiel, we pray for your healing, and we ask for your help.”

_Please Cas, I need you…_

_“_ We need you, Castiel. Dean needs you.”

_I NEED YOU…_

“We ask for your mercy, and we ask for your guidance. Amen.”

“Amen,” Dean breathed. Pain was beginning to overwhelm him, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes; when he looked up a moment later and met the girl’s gaze, was it his imagination…

…or were her eyes glowing like pilot lights?

He made some kind of incoherent sound, his mouth falling open, and the next thing he knew, Abigail was pulling aside the shower curtain and peeling off the towels, wrapping her arms around him and lifting him from the tub as though he were a small child. He cried out sharply, protesting in momentary horror… but at her touch, his pain subsided.

She carried Dean easily to the bed and laid him down carefully, then climbed up beside him, and by then he knew—his rescuer was Castiel.

“Cas,” he blurted. “Cas, wait… you don’t have the juice…”

“Hush, Dean. I’m going to help.” Leaning down, Abigail laid her hand on the side of his face and Dean could feel the warmth and energy flowing into him from Castiel’s essence—healing him.

“Stop, Cas, hold on! You don’t…”

“You need me, Dean.”

Dean struggled, but he could barely move, couldn’t fight against the angel. Castiel inside Abigail’s body had him pinned to the mattress, two fingers now against his right temple, pouring what was left of himself into Dean.

“I need you Cas, but not like this! Please, c’mon buddy, stop! Enough!” he cried. He could feel his body strengthening by the moment, his energy rising, his pain vanishing, and still the angel persisted.

“No more suffering because of me,” the girl growled in his ear.

Dean suddenly sat bolt upright, grabbing ahold of the girl’s shoulders—he had to make Castiel stop before he…

But it was too late. Heart clenching in his chest, Dean watched as Abigail’s head lolled, her eyes rolling back in their sockets as her body went limp. He dropped her down on the pillow, grabbing hold of her face in his hands. “Cas! Cas goddammit!”

No answer.

“Cas, please! Come on… don’t do this. Not again… please!” Dean begged and pleaded with the angel, patting the girl’s face and shaking her shoulders, but to no avail. He’d gotten himself jacked up again and of course Castiel had given all he had, ‘cause that was what Cas did, and this time was the last time for sure, because the angel had gone and taken another vessel and there wasn’t a damn thing Dean could do to help save him.

“Cas, I didn’t mean for you to do this,” he moaned. “I just wanted you to _be here…_ I just wanted _you. Please, Cas.”_

Abigail’s eyelids fluttered, then opened a crack, and Dean froze, looking down at the girl, hoping against hope… _“Cas?”_ he breathed.

She swallowed, looking up to meet Dean’s searching gaze. “Castiel says kiss me,” she murmured.

“He… he’s still there? You feel him?”

“Kiss me,” she repeated, lifting her hand to the back of his neck. “Quickly now.”

So Dean did. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, tasting her lips, sliding a hand into her hair, feeling her fingers at the nape of his neck. He kissed her for all he was worth, but it wasn’t the tempting young thing beneath him with her hard nipples under a thin nightgown he was kissing; in his mind, in his heart, he was kissing Castiel. And maybe not even the Jimmy Novak version of Castiel that he’d grown so accustomed to, but the _real_ Castiel who bailed him out of Hell and flew him back to Earth and slipped him back into his brand-new body like it was all in a day’s work. The one with four heads and six wings and way too many eyes who he really shouldn’t dig in this way but Jesus, he _did,_ and even if that creature didn’t have lips he still wanted to kiss him because he _loved_ him like he’d never loved anything else in his crazy life.

Dean moaned, surrendering, eyes closed, heart open, and that’s when he felt it—the powerful blast of pure love energy that started at the base of his spine and surged through him like a tsunami, engulfing his heart, flooding his mind and pouring unchecked into his partner. Dean’s eyes flew open in shock as Abigail flipped him like a pancake, mouth still on his, then pulled back and lit up like a concert hall—beams bursting from her every orifice as she sat astride him, head flung back and the shadows of enormous wings filling the room.

“ _Awesome!_ ” Dean cried in delight, before losing consciousness once again to the heavenly rush.

***

Castiel bent down and carefully lifted Dean’s inert body once again, cradling him tenderly. The spell to lock the Heaven’s Gate had worked, but he was taking no chances on any surprise visitors—they would vacate this room and at least move to Sam’s quarters. Stepping to the door, the angel opened it with his grace and moved out onto the second-floor walkway. A man stood at the top of the stairwell 40 feet away; judging from his expression, Castiel guessed he’d never seen a young woman carrying a naked, 6-foot-tall man out of a motel room in her arms. Cas threw him a glare before popping the lock on Sam’s door and entering.

The motel room was dim in the light of dawn; a bleary-eyed Sam sat propped on the bed with a computer in his lap, but at the sight of them, he shoved the laptop aside and reached the door in two strides.

“Uh… _Cas?_ ” Sam’s face was full of surprise and anxiety.

“Of course,” Castiel answered, closing the door behind him. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hey…” a flicker of pleasure lit Sam’s eyes, but he was clearly concerned about Dean. “So, that was fast. But it worked, and… is he ok?”

“Yes.” Castiel carried Dean over to the bed and laid him down gently. “It was touch and go, as you say, but all is well, now. He still has some rest and recovery ahead of him, but he is healed. We should let him sleep a bit.”

“Ok, great, and let’s… uh… cover him up a bit, too.” Sam reached down and gingerly tugged the edge of the motel bedspread up and over his brother, and Castiel realized he probably should have put Dean’s clothes back on.

Straightening up and turning back to Castiel, Sam now wore a bemused smirk. The angel stepped close and wrapped Abigail’s arms around him, and Sam chuckled and hugged back.

“It’s very good to see you again, Sam,” Castiel said.

“Well, it’s really good to see… uh… have you here again, Cas. It’s been a hell of a journey, huh?”

Looking at Sam and Dean through human eyes again, Castiel felt a surge of emotion, despite his grace. It _was_ good to be here on the Earthly plane again, in a vessel, talking to his friend. He smiled at Sam, remembering that blurry eyes meant they were filling with tears. He couldn’t find words.

Sam just looked at him kindly. “So, then,” he said, changing the subject, “What do we do now? I mean… we have to take this girl back soon, right?”

There was a time when Castiel would not have been concerned about Abigail or her family—but he thought now about the fact that her relatives would soon be searching for her. No doubt they loved her and would fear for her well-being. He should return her soon. But he also got the feeling that she was disappointed; he had promised her sex with Dean, but she had barely gotten a kiss.

Castiel looked down at the vessel in the white flannel nightgown, with her pale arms and legs, bare feet, and nipples erect in the cool air of the motel room. “I fear I’ve left her unsatisfied,” the angel said.

“What do you mean?”

“Abigail wanted to have sex. She wished to lose her virginity before her wedding night. I believe she wanted to avoid any pain or awkwardness.”

Sam’s eyebrows flew up. “ _Really…?_ And you didn’t…”

“Dean and I opened the Gate with just one kiss.”

That seemed to set the man even further back on his heels. “… Wow…”

Castiel got an idea. “Dean is sleeping, but you and I have some time. Would you like to have sex with…”

Sam’s hands flew up now, too. “Ho, no… no no no. Not… not me. Not going to take an Amish girl’s virginity. And not with you in her.”

“But she…”

“No, Cas—been to Hell, not going back.” Sam sat down on the bed next to Dean and cleared his throat.

Castiel walked over and perched on the corner of the other bed, facing his friend. “Alright then,” he said quietly, “perhaps we can talk.”

“Sure,” Sam answered, settling in cross-legged with a pillow on his lap. “Shoot. What do you want to talk about?”

“Dean would not tell me what happened—how I was nearly killed. I…”

Dean gave a sharp twitch and moaned loudly.

Sam spun around onto his knees, looking down at his brother “Dean?”

“… I want to know, Sam. What is he…”

Dean began to cough and hack, and Castiel realized Sam had quit listening to him. Of course. He watched Sam shove some pillows under Dean’s shoulders and try to quiet him, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be too annoyed. He liked to watch the brothers caring for each other.

Dean finally quit coughing and settled back down to sleep, and Castiel decided there would be time to talk later. They needed to get Abigail back soon, but first she needed to have sex.

“Sam, would you mind getting some breakfast and checking the warding and the gate?” Castiel asked. “I would like some more time alone with Dean.”

***

Castiel sat down on the bed beside Dean, gazed deeply at his friend’s face, and let himself feel the joy in being fully alive again with Dean on Earth. Love truly was stronger than death. Castiel could feel his etheric wings folded comfortingly against his back, and his grace thrumming with power once again. He could feel Dean’s resting soul purring sleepily at his attentions, continuing to gain strength. All these things gave him immense pleasure.

But underneath his happiness there lay an unease. He knew he would have to deal with the guilt and the shame over his choices that had led to the Nephilim’s birth (and his own near-death), and with the consequences that would surely follow. He had failed _yet again_. How had he been led so willingly by the Nephilim? Where was Jack now and what would come of his presence on Earth? And how had Castiel been attacked, and by whom or what? Was Dean deliberately obfuscating the truth—and why? Most importantly, in his own heart, how could he ever make amends to Dean for the suffering he’d caused him on every level?

Castiel felt an infinite debt of gratitude to Dean for resurrecting him; he hardly felt deserving of what he’d received. His only solace was that he’d killed Lucifer—and maybe that was the best gift he could ever offer. Lucifer would never again torment the Winchesters, nor wreak his evil havoc any longer on any plane of existence.

The angel also fully intended to help the brothers find Mary. Her loss felt painful to him, and he could only imagine that was magnified tenfold in Sam and Dean. If he could help find her—if he could lighten Dean’s load in any way along the journey—perhaps he could begin to atone.

Agitated, Castiel stood up again and turned around—and came face to face with an image in the mirror. Seeing himself in the female vessel gave him pause, and jolted him out of his self-flagellation. While he was certainly aware of his appearance, and did not need human eyes to see, it was interesting to look at his vessel this way. The way Dean might see her.

He stared for a few moments, mesmerized, then pulled the nightgown off over her head and let it drop carelessly to the floor. He judged Abigail to have a desirable body, by human standards; he knew Dean would appreciate her lovely smile, curvaceous hips, full breasts and athletic strength. He ran his hands down her sides, though he could not feel the touch. He would like to feel it. He let one hand trail slowly back up, skimming through pubic hair, dipping into her navel, cupping a breast. He touched her lips thoughtfully. He would like to kiss Dean with her mouth, to feel the whiskers of Dean’s beard against her soft skin. Would it feel as soft as it appeared?

Abigail would be a good partner for Dean, Castiel thought. They could make vigorous love, the way Dean liked it. Then afterwards, Castiel would enjoy seeing the tenderness that Dean allowed himself with women. The thought of making love to Dean with Abigail’s body made him fairly vibrate with pleasure—and a moment later, chastise himself for being so selfish. This was not about him—he barely deserved such pleasure—but it should be about pleasing Dean and Abigail, who had done so much for him.

Castiel supposed that he could just leave Abigail, and let the two of them go to it. Perhaps Dean would prefer that—it would be less complicated. That thought caused him a surprising pang. When he erased Dean’s memory, he had come to accept the idea of never sharing earthly intimacy with his friend again—painful as that was. But now that Dean had shared so much with him and sacrificed so much so willingly to save him—well, he was _assuming_ physical intimacy was something Dean wanted again. Not just what Dean was willing to do to resurrect him. Was his assumption unfounded?

He would just have to find out. He pulled the blankets off the empty bed and arranged himself and Dean a cozy nest for their naked bodies. Then he picked up the crystal from the nightstand. Stretching out alongside Dean, skin to skin, he held the crystal to Abigail’s breast and concentrated on where his other hand rested on Dean’s belly, fingers brushing the trail of hair below his navel.

A short time later, he opened Abigail’s eyes and realized the world looked different, and he could detect the exquisite warmth and solidness of Dean’s thigh and shoulder, the soft tickle of hair on his belly, the coolness of his toes. Castiel let go a breath, then reached around and let the crystal drop to the mattress behind him.

Dean… Castiel could feel both his delighted soul and his lightly-furred mammal body, and the deliciousness of it was intoxicating. Perfect.

“Oh, Dean,” he breathed… a little surprised to hear a female voice from his human lips, with his human ears. He wanted to be closer. Dean’s soul drew him in. He slid a leg over Dean’s thigh, pressed his belly against his friend’s, felt the fullness of Abigail’s breast squashed against the muscles of Dean’s left arm. A cascade of hair tickled down his back, over his shoulder, falling onto Dean’s chest. Castiel nuzzled Abigail’s nose into Dean’s neck and brushed sensitive lips over his bearded cheek, which was soft _and_ coarse _and_ prickly all at once. Softer than Jimmy’s beard had been. Fascinating.

He was being far too forward, he knew, but it was hard not to be eager. He wanted to give Dean pleasure—Dean deserved to be worshipped and adored. Abigail deserved a reward for her assistance. He would open the channels to let Abigail feel his pleasure. He would be the conduit for their delight.

Dean moaned and stirred, bringing his thigh up between Abigail’s legs, and the sudden pressure there made Castiel _ache._ It was similar to the way Jimmy’s penis had ached—a yearning sort of ache. He rocked her pelvis down, grinding into Dean’s hairy thigh, and the ache turned into a burn. He _wanted. She_ wanted, too.

Leaning over his face, Castiel kissed Dean wetly on the lips and murmured against his mouth, “Awaken to me, Dean. Wake up.”

He sat up, running Abby’s hands down Dean’s ribcage, brushing Dean’s nipples, hips gently undulating on Dean’s thigh. Abigail was hot and wet between her legs, lubricating Dean’s skin. He remembered touching April there when he had been human, feeling her slippery folds, how hidden and delicate her sex organs seemed to be. He had fucked her gently, and with veneration.

That was not at all how he wanted to be fucked right now. He wanted to be an offering to Dean. He wanted Dean to take control and take what he needed.

Castiel spied Dean’s penis emerging from its wooly little nest, lifting and hardening, and he watched, entranced, as it swelled to full length, head emerging from the foreskin. He had loved the feeling of that cock inside him, and the way Dean had kissed him so lusciously, plunging his slick tongue into Castiel’s mouth as the penis filled him over and over, until he was drunk with lust and ecstasy.

He slid down, then, Abigail’s hair falling across Dean’s lap as he gave the beloved penis a tender, open-mouthed kiss…

“… the hell’s goin’ on…?” Dean muttered, and Castiel felt a hand, clumsy against Abby’s cheek.

Castiel halted, sweeping the hair from Abigail’s face to look up. “Hello, Dean,” he said with a smile.

Dean struggled up onto an elbow and looked down at the woman between his legs, his brow furrowing. “ _Cas?”_

“Yes, of course. How are you feeling?”

Dean stared at him hard, as if he were trying to decipher a wall full of hieroglyphics. “Kinda like Bruce Jenner’s wife, I’m guessin’…” he mumbled. “That really you?”

“It’s me, Dean,” Cas said gently. “The angel who raised you from Hell. The angel you have wrested, at great personal cost, from the jaws of oblivion. Thank you, my friend. I wish I could thank you enough.” A little self-conscious then, he looked down at the penis in Abby’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. “I was considering how…”

Dean let his head fall back on the pillow and laughed weakly. “I should be thanking _you_ after...” he waved his hand in the direction of the bathroom. “…I always thought I’d die bloody, y’ know? Not… _soapy._ You saved _my_ ass again, too.”

“It’s very good to see your ass again—from the outside.”

“Well, I’d say it’s good to see yours again, too, but…” a cloud passed across Dean’s face, and he never finished his sentence, instead draping an arm over his eyes.

“This is different, I know,” Castiel acknowledged. He crawled back up to his friend’s side, laid a hand over Dean’s where it rested on his belly. “But it’s still me. Thanks to you. And I’ve missed seeing you and drinking with you and helping you, and all the other things we get to do together on Earth.

“I’ve missed you too, buddy,” Dean replied, emotion in his voice, though he couldn’t seem to look at the angel. “Even though you were right here all along, I guess. It sure wasn’t the same.”

Castiel smiled, and leaned down over Dean’s face to kiss him tentatively on the mouth. “Let’s have sex, Dean. We have some time before I must return Abigail—and she wants to lose her virginity.”

Dean lifted his arm to squint up at the girl. “What, seriously? Isn’t she… are we on _Breaking Amish_ or something?”

Choosing to ignore that comment, Castiel slid onto Dean’s lap and took hold of his half-hard cock again. “I’d like to know what it feels like, Dean—as a woman.” With his free hand, he reached for Dean’s fingers, and cupped his warm hand around Abby’s breast. “Will you touch me?”

“Cas…”

Dean’s velvety-soft penis felt so different from his strong and calloused fingers; Castiel remembered thinking that the first time they made love. Dean’s body had so many different textures and tastes and scents, all of them pleasing. “I’ve missed your body, Dean,” he blurted. “Please hold me.”

Spreading Abigail’s body on top of Dean’s, Castiel kissed his bearded face, his cheeks, his eyes, his Adam’s apple, the damp place at the base of his throat, feeling Dean’s hands on his shoulders.

“Cas… hey…” Dean said shakily, but Castiel was lost in a wonderland of human sensation, burning like a torch, flowing like a river, licking his way down to Dean’s right nipple, suckling gently. Reaching between their bodies, he found Dean’s penis again, but it wasn’t hard, not at all, and that didn’t seem right. Perhaps he should suck it…

 _“Hold on,”_ Dean demanded, and Castiel froze, startled to hear the pain in his voice. “Hold on,” he repeated, and it came out a sob.

“Dean…” Castiel scrambled to his knees beside his friend as Dean sat up, bending over and pinching the bridge of his nose, a tear escaping to run down his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 _“Dude…,”_ which was always Dean’s prelude to saying something which made Castiel feel less than intelligent. He sniffled hard.

“I don’t understand,” Castiel prodded. “Why are you sad? We are both alive and safe. And you are in bed with a beautiful woman who wants sex.”

Dean dropped his hand and looked up to glare through his tears. “You’re _not a beautiful woman_.”

Confused, Castiel looked down at Abby’s naked body. “You don’t think this vessel is beautiful?”

Dean barked out an ironic laugh. “Of course I fuckin’ do, dumbass, but she’s not YOU. You… I _buried_ you, man, and I… I didn’t want to… Goddamn, it _sucked…_ ” Here his friend had to stop, overwhelmed by silent grief again.

“Oh…” Of course, Castiel thought, _how could I be so blind?_ Bodies meant so much to humans, as he was rediscovering. He remembered his conversation with Dean and Mary, and Dean touching his face with fondness. It had been the reason he’d kept his vessel alive after the lightning strike, using up his newfound energy to heal his body again.

“I’m being an ass, I know,” Dean babbled, “‘cause you’re back and I’m so glad, but…”

“I understand, Dean,” the angel soothed. “My vessel—Jimmy’s body—was your best friend.”

“ _You’re_ my best friend… but… ah fuck… this is messed up.”

“Don’t feel sorry for being human. I love your soul, but your body is dear to me, too. I understand.” Castiel took Dean’s wet face in Abigail’s hands and looked him in the eye. “Would you like me to resurrect my old vessel?”

Dean nodded, grimacing, and Castiel leaned forward to press their foreheads together. “Please,” Dean whispered, and Castiel could feel his body trembling. “Please… yeah.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he replied, and wrapped Dean in Abigail’s arms, holding him for a few minutes until the shaking stopped and Dean had wiped his last tear.

Finally, Castiel said gently, “There is still unfinished business, Dean. Before I can take her back, we should…”

“Yeah… ok,” Dean groaned, as if the angel had asked him to eat a salad.

***

Dean proved to be extremely talented at cunnilingus, which was not surprising. What _was_ surprising was the intensity of the orgasms that tore through Abigail’s body, leaving Castiel dizzy and hoarse and very much overstimulated after the third one, pushing Dean’s head away from Abby’s crotch.

“Stop,” he panted, trembling. “Please… no more…”

“Stop, don’t stop, which is it?” Dean purred wickedly. He crawled up Abigail’s body, stopping briefly to suckle at a breast, and his lips on Castiel’s tasted pungent with sex. Castiel kissed him back languidly, pleasantly exhausted—yet somehow feeling his vessel’s arousal returning once again. Being female was certainly different.

Dean pulled away, then, and Castiel looked down to see him on his knees between Abby’s spread thighs; he watched as Dean tore open a foil packet with his teeth, took out a condom and began rolling it on.

“Dean,” Cas said, disappointed, “I wanted to give you a blow job.”

“You’re not sucking my dick with an Amish girl,” Dean said, and his tone brooked no argument. “Let’s just do this.”

Castiel was just as happy not to have to move. He spread the girl’s legs wide in invitation and reached to touch Dean as his friend came to him. Dean hovered over him with his dick in his hand for a moment, frowning, then Castiel felt the slick head pressing against Abigail’s tumescent pussy.

“Try to relax,” Dean breathed. “This virgin thing ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Dean pushed and Castiel rose up to meet him, biting his lip at the twinge of pain, blocking it from his host. Then, slowly, he began to let her feel again—feel the thick, satisfying fullness of Dean’s cock inside her, sliding slowly in and out, as the soreness dissipated.

“Doin’ ok?” Dean asked.

“Yes… oh… yes, Dean. Your penis feels good.”

“Mmm, it does, doesn’t it?”

“It feels different than it did our first time,” he observed, as Dean kissed his neck. “Good in a different way.” He held Dean tightly and rocked with him, lusty visions of their sex flooding his mind. “I loved being fucked by you, Dean. I loved sucking your cock. I loved everything we did.”

“That why you erased my memory?” Dean stopped in mid-thrust and lay still a moment, his lips close to the angel’s ear.

Castiel blinked up at the ceiling, heart suddenly in his throat—a strange sensation every time. “Dean, I… I’m sorry I did that. But something happened—whether it was the gate opening, or your memory of Hell, I couldn’t be sure—something shocked you and you shut down. I had to reset you…”

Dean grunted. “Wasn’t a memory of Hell, so much as _you…”_ He began to thrust again. “You, man… couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you comin’.”

Dean suddenly clutched Abigail tightly and flipped their bodies so that Castiel was now on top; he grabbed her ass and Castiel began to move as Dean’s hands guided him.

“Were you afraid?” Castiel asked breathlessly.

“Scared? No, I was… you were so fuckin’ awesome. You saved me from _Hell._ You’re beautiful, Cas. Ah fuck… fuck me…”

Cas ground down, rocking and rolling, tension building in Abigail’s body. “You were very brave. So brave, Dean…”

“You’re fucking hot, Cas. I mean Jimmy’s hot, but YOU… since I remembered I can’t stop thinking about you… the real you. Show me some wing, man.”

“What?”

“Wanna see your wings.”

“Dean…”

“Wanna get fucked by an angel…”

Castiel had mixed feelings about pulling that crystal back out of the bedclothes—after all, he was deliciously close to a fourth orgasm. But Dean’s words filled him with an intense excitement, and Dean’s soul was blazing in his fierce green eyes, and when Castiel burst into full display, well… the orgasm he gave up, the feeling of power and expansiveness as his wings unfurled behind him, and the heat and light infusing his human and etheric body—these things were all as nothing compared to the wonder on Dean’s face.

***

Castiel’s footsteps echoed through the empty halls of the bunker as he descended the stairs once again. The last time he’d been there alone, he’d been sorrowful—Dean and Sam locked up far away, and he unable to help but seeking some comfort, some clue here. Before that, there was the terrible day when Dean had gone off to meet the Darkness, and then Sam had been stolen. When he returned to the bunker despairing and alone, finding Dean and Mary there became his favorite miracle.

Aside from, perhaps, this miracle.

Castiel looked down at his vessel as he strolled through the war room, once again in his trench coat, suit and tie. He couldn’t wait for his friends to arrive—the anticipation of seeing their happy faces was almost too much to bear.

Dean had struggled with letting him go that morning; they hugged at the motel room door, and he had sensed Dean’s abandonment fears rising. They had not been separated since the night he’d been “killed.”

“I’ll see you again soon, Dean,” the angel told him.

“Yeah, you better.”

“As soon as I drop off Abigail, I will return to the bunker. By the time you arrive, I will be ready to meet you. Understand?”

Dean scowled, forced himself to drop his arms and take one step back. “Yeah. Now listen, if you… if you can’t get back into Jimmy… for whatever reason… then you do what you gotta do, ok? I mean don’t do anything crazy. But don’t be picky on my account. If you gotta take somebody’s Nana, or old Uncle Joe, that’s ok. Or don’t take anybody, if you can’t find some stiff who’ll work. But I still want you around, y’know? You’re always gonna be my buddy, no matter what.”

Castiel laid Abby’s hand on his shoulder, nodding, trying to offer Dean some soothing energy. “Best buddy,” he agreed.

“Yeah. Best buddy.” Dean had smiled, tearing up a bit, and taken Abby’s hand off his shoulder to press against his heart.

Saying goodbye to Abigail had been just as endearing. He had taken her back to her room in the blink of an eye, and exited her body to hover before her once again—rather larger this time. _I cannot thank you enough, Abigail—because of you, Dean and I both live. If you are ever in need, simply call me, and I will come._

“You’re welcome, Castiel,” she murmured, smiling. “I feel as though I should thank you, too. I’ll never have another night like this one. And I’m guessing I’ll never meet another angel quite like you. Or a man quite as talented as Dean.”

_I hope for your sake you are wrong about the latter. But you are certainly correct about the former. Goodbye, Abigail._

It made Castiel warm to think about it. Or maybe it was just warm in the bunker.

He fingered the selenite crystal in his coat pocket; he was already feeling its effects. He wanted to be ready when Dean came through that door—he wanted to _feel_ that hug this time. And whatever else they might do afterward.

In his left-hand pocket, his fingers smoothed over the cassette tape Dean had given him a few months ago. He preferred Haydn or Marvin Gaye to Led Zeppelin, but he wasn’t about to tell Dean that. He hadn’t understood the gift at first, but after pondering how much time Dean had spent on making it just for him, he couldn’t help but be moved. It had been in his coat when he died.

They had buried him with it—and purposefully, he realized, because this was a new coat. All his clothes, in fact, were new. They had dressed his dead vessel in new clothing, and that was a gift, too.

Looking down, he smiled to see he was wearing a tie that he’d bought two years ago on a shopping trip with Sam. It was striped white and sparkly gold, and had caught his eye in the store; Sam didn’t tell him not to buy it, but Dean had taken one look at it on him and said “Not on this trip, Liberace” with such disdain that Castiel had taken it off, folded it carefully and placed it in a drawer.

Someone had taken it out and put it on him and tied it neatly.

Then, lastly, they had laid him to rest with his angel blade in his hands, and twined around his fingers, Dean’s old amulet.

They loved him.

And he loved them.

He paused in the library when he heard the click and rattle of the main door, and the loud squeak as it swung open. Then footsteps on the stairs.

“Cas! Cas, you here?” Dean’s voice boomed through the halls. Sam said something quiet, then they split up. Someone was walking toward him, footsteps approaching, and he couldn’t speak or move until they had spotted each other across the table. “Cas!” Sam cried. “Dean, in here!”

Sam’s face lit with delight as he loped around the table to grab Castiel in a bear hug. “Oh man, it’s so good to see you!”

“You too, Sam,” Castiel replied, and his human heart was pounding, and he couldn’t stop grinning, and Sam was squeezing his body hard, fingers digging into his ribs.

Then suddenly, there was Dean—soul shining like the sun, just like that day he’d vanquished the darkness. Sam let him go, and Castiel turned to his best friend and opened his arms.

“Hello, Dean.”

“There you are,” Dean whispered, lifting a hand to his heart, and despite the tears, there was no mistaking his emotion. Even an angel could see that what he was feeling was utter, unmistakable, and unequivocal joy.

FINI

 

_Thanks for your patience. Whew! Just in the nick of time, before the new season begins – can’t wait! If you enjoyed this (or didn’t), please tell me all about it, and thanks for all your comments along the way! You always make my day. I wonder if Castiel thinks he killed Lucifer in canon... I had him think that here, and Dean hide the truth from him, because he wanted him to have a "win."  Of course he'll soon find out that's not the case, but by then perhaps he'll have more reasons to live. I’ve got a sexy little epilogue half-written, which I hope to post within a week, so might wanna check back. Then I swear it’s over._


	12. Epilogue - Tumbling Dice

“Dean…”

“What the… Jesus, Cas, don’t just come popping in here like that!”

“I’m sorry to startle you… but you were yearning again.”

“I was… unggh… I was half asleep…”

“You were wanting me to come to you—so I did.”

“Huh. Yeah. Well, here we are. C’mon, get comfy. Tell me somethin’ good.”

“I liked that you were thinking of me.”

“You gotta get outta my head, dude… So, what was I thinking?”

“You were fantasizing once again about things that can’t happen, sadly. Move over a little more.”

“Yeah? So why not?”

“Because angels don’t have penises, Dean. You know that. God makes angels himself, so we have no need to…”

“Yeah yeah, junkless, blah blah blah. Not fair, no fun. So, where’s your magic wand?”

“In my pants.”

“Not talking about your dick, dude, talking about that crystal.”

“Well I meant the… oh… but that is a funny joke.”

“Jesus, you’re a dork. Gimme a kiss.”

…

…

“Your penis is hard—your fantasy must have been stimulating.”

“That’s pretty much the point…”

“Dean… do you really find my true form sexually attractive?”

“Hmmph. You want the truth?”

“Always. Oh… now you’re making _my_ penis hard.”

“Truth is I can’t stop thinking about that first time I saw you. You blew me away. You’re just fuckin’ old-school awesome with all that power and your wings and those… how many faces do you have? First I thought you were a horse, then I saw a lion…”

“Seraphs have four faces.”

“Are they all the same? What are they?”

“I often appear as a lion. I also have faces akin to a zebra, a snake and a bird of prey. No angel has the same four faces, and we can choose which ones to show. Many of your earth animals were modeled after angels’ faces—God enjoys experimenting with forms.”

“Love your lion face, man. You’re like that cool lion from Narnia… Dunno why that makes me hot, but it does. Now whip out that wand.”

“Which one?”

“That’s a funny joke… both of ‘em.”

“Dean… so are you saying you want to have sex with a Seraph? That’s… that’s not normal or natural.”

“Excuse me, have you met me? Not exactly the poster boy for normal.”

“But would you want to have sex with a fish? Or a bird?”

“I do like your wings, bro… Can you feel this yet?”

“Not quite yet. I must say, I am flattered, but you’ll just have to enjoy my vessel. My true form would completely overwhelm you. You couldn’t even hear my voice without feeling pain!”

“Dude, obviously I can’t take the Chrysler Building up the ass. But could we find a happy medium? I mean, back at Bobby’s cabin, the way you picked me up and tossed me around… you were like King Kong and I was freakin’ Jessica Lange. I can’t stop thinking about that. THAT… that was… it was just fuckin’ hot.”

“You spend every day _hunting_ things that pick you up and toss you around. Why would you want me to do that?”

“I dunno—why do guys like Donald Trump pay good money to get spanked?”

“Ooh… now I’m starting to feel that… please continue…”

“Just sayin’, I like it when you’re badass.”

“So you want me to be rough?”

“Manhandle me like you did at the cabin. Like you did in that alley back when I was gonna be Michael’s meatsuit…. Oof!… Hey… that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Show me who’s boss.”

 “You once promised me obedience, and service to the angels.”

“Yeah, baby…”

“I want you to service me, Dean Winchester. Stop talking and give me a blow job.”

“Yes, sir!”

...

“Oh, Dean… keep doing that… I love that.”

“Feels good?”

“Unngh, yes. Suck harder. Oh…”

“Mmm… love it when you talk dirty, Cas.”

“Stop touching yourself—that’s my job. Mmmm, Dean. I want to fuck you now… come up here…

“Fuck I want you, Cas. I want _you._ You big fuckin’ lion with wings. I want you to pick me up and fuck me like you did. Fuck me like an angel.”

“Angels don’t fuck. But I will fuck you.”

“Ah God… like you did in the cabin. You fucked me so good and hard. Tell me how you’d fuck me in your true form…”

“Hand me that lube, Dean.”

“Oh… yeah, … C’mon Cas, just talk dirty to me. Tell me… oh… tell me how you’d take your three-foot lion dick and fuckin’ bang my brains out. Pin me like a fuckin’ bug to the wall. Make me your bitch and make me take it all…”

“You’d like that…”

“Yeah… Yeah… Gimme another finger…”

“Like this?”

“Oh God, Cas… just do me. Fill me full of big hard angel dick. C’mon.”

“You are in such a rush, little one. Use your imagination. Close your eyes. See me. I’m so much larger than you, and it’s hard to be gentle.

“Hurt me… you can hurt me.”

“On your knees, now. You’re going to feel my lion’s teeth around your shoulder as hold you in place. I will try not to sink my claws into your sides as I pin you down.”

“Oh God…”

“Your body is so tender and sweet, Dean. So delicious. So soft and warm inside. I want to fuck you, my beautiful human, but my cock is so big.”

“I want it. I want it anyway. Please…”

“Are you sure, my human lover? Ah… my wings are spread wide and trembling. I want you so.”

 _“Fuck,_ that’s hot. Fuck. Oh Cas, please, please just fuck me. Give me all that lion angel dick – every last foot. Every inch. Come on.”

“I will give you every last inch, then, even if it tears you apart.”

“I don’t care if it kills me! Ah fuck! Yes!”

“Oh, lover… does it hurt? Am I hurting you?”

“Killing me… so fuckin’ much cock. Oh God… I want more. Harder.”

…

…

“Oh, my love… I love to hear your moans. Look over your shoulder… see what you’re doing to this angel…”

“Fuck! That’s… Cas… your wings! You ain’t kidding! So awesome… I wanna touch...”

“They want your touch…”

“Oh, God, I… Are they soft?”

“Yes… oh… I’m going to come…”

“How’re you… how can you do both?”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“Whacking off with your wings out? _Holy Fuck_ … What happens when angels come? Ah God, fill me. Fill my ass.”

“I’ll fill your ass and then your mouth. There will be a river of cum and it will taste like pie…”

“Fuck yeah, drown me in pie cum. Come on, angel baby…”

“Oh… Oh… Oh Dean! Dean!”

“Hell, yeah… that’s it, babe… save me some… ummm… mmm… Holy shit!”

“What? What is it?”

“You magical bastard—that’s blueberry!”

“Mmm, Dean. Of course it is—I’m an angel. Now… It’s your turn. I’m going to suck your dick until you scream with pleasure, little human.”

“Oh yeah… oh shit, Cas. Just… just like that. Oh… oh God.”

“Mmmm.”

“Oh, I’m close. Good thing I can’t make pie jizz…”

“You’d never leave your room…”

“Don’t stop, Cas…”

“You’ll just have to come to me…”

“Don’t stop! Ah! Ah! Ahhh…”

“Mmmm. I see now, pretty human, how easily enslaved you will be. I will give you orgasms and pie cum and you will be mine.”

“Ha! That’s all it takes, buddy. Uunngh—orgasms and pie. I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours, Dean. Forever.”

“Yeah. Forever.”

 

_OK, hope you enjoyed that little interlude – I so needed some lightness after the premiere, which I found both terrific and deeply sad at the same time. So that’s all, folks—If you loved my story, please let me know! I love your comments, and I’ve really enjoyed this ride._


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